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A   WANDERER   IN   PARIS 


BY  THE    SAME   AUTHOR 

A   WANDERER   IN    LONDON 
A    WANDERER   IN   HOLLAND 
OVER   BEMERTON'S 

listener's  LURE 

ANNE'S   TERRIBLE   GOOD-NATURE 
THE   OPEN   ROAD 
THE   GENTLEST   ART 
THE   LADIES1   PAGEANT 
SOME  FRIENDS   OF   MINE 
CHARACTER   AND   COMEDY 
THE   LIFE   OF   CHARLES   LAMB 
ONE   DAY   AND   ANOTHER 


A   WANDERER    IN 
PARIS 


BY 

E.    V.    LUCAS 


2  o  5<b  3 

"  I'll  go  and  chat  with  Paris  " 

—  Romeo  and  Juliet 


WITH    SIXTEEN    ILLUSTRATIONS   IN   COLOUR  BY 

WALTER   DEXTER 

AND   THIRTY-TWO   REPRODUCTIONS   FROM   WORKS   OF  ART 


Ncfo  fgork 

THE    MACMILLAN    COMPANY 

1911 

-All  rights  reserved 


Copyright,  1909, 
By  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.     Published  September,  1909.     Reprintod 
January,  September,  1910  ;  March,  1911. 


Norbjoot  $reas 

J.  S.  Cushing  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith  Co. 

Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


)  Lo 


PREFACE 


ALTHOUGH  the  reader  will  quickly  make 
the  discovery  for  himself,  I  should  like 
here  to  emphasise  the  fact  that  this  is  a  book 
about  Paris  and  the  Parisians  written  wholly 
from  the  outside  and  containing  only  so  much 
of  that  city  and  its  citizens  as  a  foreigner 
who  has  no  French  friends  may  observe  on 
holiday  visits. 

I  express  elsewhere  my  indebtedness  to  a 
few  French  authors.  I  have  also  been  greatly 
assisted  in  a  variety  of  ways,  but  especially 
in  the  study  of  the    older   Paris   streets,   by 

my  friend  Mr.  Frank  Holford. 

E.  V.  L. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER   I 

PAGE 

The  English  Gates  of  Paris i 

CHAPTER  II 
The  Ile  de  la  Cite 9 

CHAPTER  III 
Notre  Dame 31 

CHAPTER  IV 
Saint  Louis  and  his  Island 54 

CHAPTER  V 
The  Marais 61 

CHAPTER  VI 
The  Louvre:   I.  The  Old  Masters 78 

CHAPTER  VII 
The  Louvre:   II.  Modern  Pictures  and  Other  Treasures      97 

CHAPTER   VIII 
The  Tuileries 114 

CHAPTER   IX 

The  Place  de  la  Concorde,  the  Champs-Elysees  and  the 

Invalides 132 

vii 


viii  A   WANDERER   IN   PARIS 

CHAPTER   X 

PAGE 

The  Boulevard  St.  Germain  and  its  Tributaries       .        .158 

CHAPTER  XI 
The  Latin  Quarter 170 

CHAPTER  XII 
The  Pantheon  and  Sainte  Genevieve 188 

CHAPTER   XIII 
Two  Zoos 199 

CHAPTER  XIV 
The  Grands  Boulevards  :  I.  The  Madeleine  to  the  Opera    214 

CHAPTER   XV 
A  Chair  at  the  Cafe  de  la  Paix 227 

CHAPTER  XVI 

The  Grands  Boulevards  :  II.  The  Opera  to  the  Place  de 

la  Republique 244 

CHAPTER  XVII 
Montmartre 260 

CHAPTER  XVIII 
The  Elysee  to  the  HStel  de  Ville 276 

CHAPTER  XIX 
The  Place  des  Vosges  and  Hugo's  House   ....    299 

CHAPTER  XX 
The  Bastille,  Pere  Lachaise  and  the  End         .        .        .    306 

Index 321 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

IN   COLOUR 

The  Rue  de  l'HStel  de  Ville        ....  Frontispiece 
The  Courtyard  of  the  Compas  d'Or     .        .        .  To  face  page  20 

The  Ile  de  la  Cite  from  the  Pont  des  Arts     .  „          40 

Notre  Dame „          58 

The  Arc  de  Triomphe  de  l'Etoile        ...  ,,74 

The  Parc  Monceau „        116 

The  Arc  de  Triomphe  du  Carrousel    ...  „        124 

The  Place  de  la  Concorde „        140 

The  Pont  d'Alexandre  III „        160 

The  Fontaine  de  Medicis „        180 

The  Musee  Cluny „         200 

The  Rue  de  Bievre „        222 

The  Boulevard  des  Italiens „        240 

The  Porte  St.  Denis ,,258 

montmartre  from  the  buttes-chaumont     .        .  „        280 

The  Place  des  Vosges,  Southern  Entrance        .  „        300 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


IN   BLACK   AND   WHITE 


Giovanni  Tornabuoni  et  les  Trois  Graces  — 
Fresco  from  the  Villa  Lemmi.  Botticelli 
(Louvre) 

The  Nativity.     Luini  (Louvre)  . 

From  a  Photograph  by  Mansell 

La  Vierge  aux  Rochers.     Leonardo  da  Vinci 
(Louvre)         ...... 

From  a  Photograph  by  Neurdein 

Sainte  Anne,  La  Vierge,  et  l'Enfant  Jesus 
Leonardo  da  Vinci.     (Louvre) 
From  a  Photograph  by  Neurdein 

La  Pensee.     Rodin  (Luxembourg) 

From  a  Photograph  by  Neurdein 

Balthasar  Castiglione.     Raphael  (Louvre) 
From  a  Photograph  by  Neurdein 

L'Homme  au  Gant.     Titian  (Louvre) 
From  a  Photograph  by  Neurdein 

Portrait  de  Jeune  Homme.    Attributed  to  Bigio 

(Louvre) 

From  a  Photograph  by  Alinari 

The  Winged  Victory  of  Samothrace.  (Louvre) 

From  a  Photograph  by  Giraudon 

LA  Joconde  :    Monna  Lisa.     Leonardo  da  Vinci 

(Louvre) 

From  a  Photograph  by  Neurdein 


To  face  page     6 
»     16 

„     26 

n  36 

»        46 

»    52 

M       64 

f,  7° 

80 

86 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS  xi 

Portrait  d'une  Dame  et  sa   Fille.     Van  Dyck 

(Louvre) To  face  page  94 

From  a  Photograph  by  Mansell 

Le     Vallon.       Corot     (Louvre,     Thomy-Thierret 

Collection) „  106 

From  a  Photograph  by  Neurdein 

Le  Pkintemps.    Rousseau  (Louvre,  Thomy-Thierret 

Collection) »  * 16 

From  a  Photograph  by  Neurdein 

Vieux  Homme  et  Enfant.     Ghirlandaio  (Louvre)  „         136 

From  a  Photograph  by  Mansell 

Venus  et  l'Amour.     Rembrandt  (Louvre)     .         .  „  146 

From  a  Photograph  by  Neurdein 

Les  Pelerins  d'Emmaus.     Rembrandt  (Louvre)    .  „  154 

From  a  Photograph  by  Neurdein 

La  Vierge  au  Donateur.     J.  van  Eyck  (Louvre)  „         166 

From  a  Photograph  by  Neurdein 

Le  Baiser.     Rodin  (Luxembourg)  ....  „  174 

From  a  Photograph  by  Neurdein 

La  Bohemienne.     Franz  Hals  (Louvre)  ...  „  186 

From  a  Photograph  by  Neurdein 

Ste.  Genevieve.     Puvis  de  Chavannes  (Pantheon)  „  194 

From  a  Photograph  by  Neurdein 

La  Lecon  de  Lecture.    Terburg  (Louvre)   .        .  „  206 

From  a  Photograph  by  Neurdein 

La  Dentelliere.     Vermeer  of  Delft  (Louvre)         .  »         216 

From  a  Photograph  by  Woodbury 

Girl's  Head.     Ecole  de  Fabriano  (Louvre)    .        .  „         228 

From  a  Photograph  by  Mansell 

La  Benedicite.     Chardin  (Louvre)  ...  „         234 

From  a  Photograph  by  Giraudon 

Madame  Le  Brun  et  sa  Fille.     Madame  Le  Brun 

(Louvre) »         24^ 

From  a  Photograph  by  Hanfstaengl 


A    WANDERER    IN    PARIS 


Le    Pont   de    Mantes.      Corot   (Louvre,  Thomy- 

Thierret  Collection) To  face  page  252 

From  a  Photograph  by  Neurdein 

LA  Provende  des  Poules.    Troyon  (Louvre)       ..  ,.  266 

From  a  Photograph  by  Alinari 

The  Wind  Mill.     R.  P.  Bonington  (Louvre)  .  „         274 

L'Amateur     d'Estampes.       Daumier    (Palais    des 

Beaux  Arts) „         286 

Portrait  de  sa  Mere.     Whistler  (Luxembourg)    .  „         294 

Portrait  de  Mlle.  de  Moreno.     Granie  (Luxem- 
bourg)           ,.308 

Le  Monument  aux  Morts.     A.  Bartholome  (Pere 

la  Chaise)  ........  „  316 

From  a  Photograph  by  Neurdein 


Ill,    ~4 

forte]  I 

S^  Queen, 


A   WANDERER   IN    PARIS 


A   WANDERER   IN   PARIS 


CHAPTER  I 

1     V 

THE   ENGLISH   GATES   OF   PARIS 

The  Gare  du  Nord  and  Gare  St.  Lazare  —  The  Singing  Cabman  — 
"  Vivent  les  femmes ! "  —  Characteristic  Paris  — The  Next  Morning 
—  A  Choice  of  Delights  —  The  Compas  d'Or  —  The  World  of  Du- 
mas —  The  First  Lunch  —  Voisin  wins. 

MOST  travellers  from  London  enter  Paris  in  the 
evening,  and  I  think  they  are  wise.  I  wish  it 
were  possible  again  and  again  to  enter  Paris  in  the 
evening  for  the  first  time;  but  since  it  is  not,  let  me 
hasten  to  say  that  the  pleasure  of  re-entering  Paris 
in  the  evening  is  one  that  custom  has  almost  no  power 
to  stale.  Every  time  that  one  emerges  from  the  Gare 
du  Nord  or  the  Gare  St.  Lazare  one  is  taken  afresh  by 
the  variegated  and  vivid  activity  of  it  all  —  the  myriad 
purposeful  self-contained  bustling  people,  all  moving 
on  their  unknown  errands  exactly  as  they  were  moving 
when  one  was  here  last,  no  matter  how  long  ago.  For 
Paris  never  changes :  that  is  one  of  her  most  precious 
secrets. 

The  London  which  one  had  left  seven  or  eight  hours 
before  was  populous  enough  and  busy  enough,  Heaven 


2  A   WANDERER   IN   PARIS 

knows,  but  London's  pulse  is  slow  and  fairly  regular, 
and  even  at  her  gayest,  even  when  greeting  Royalty, 
she  seems  to  be  advising  caution  and  a  careful  de- 
meanour. But  Paris  —  Paris  smiles  and  Paris  sings. 
There  is  an  incredible  vivacity  in  her  atmosphere. 

Sings !  This  reminds  me  that  on  the  first  occasion 
that  I  entered  Paris  —  ,:n  the  evening,  of  course  —  my 
cabman  sang.  He  sang  all  the  way  from  the  Gare 
du  Nord  to  the  Rue  Caumartin.  This  seemed  to  me 
delightful  and  odd,  although  at  first  I  felt  in  danger  of 
attracting  more  attention  than  one  likes;  but  as  we 
proceeded  down  the  Rue  Lafayette  —  which  nothing  but 
song  and  the  fact  that  it  is  the  high  road  into  Paris 
from  England  can  render  tolerable  —  I  discovered  that 
no  one  minded  us.  A  singing  cabman  in  London  would 
bring  out  the  Riot  Act  and  the  military;  but  here  he 
was  in  the  picture:  no  one  threw  at  the  jolly  fellow 
any  of  the  chilling  deprecatory  glances  which  are  the 
birthright  of  every  light-hearted  eccentric  in  my  own 
land.  And  so  we  proceeded  to  the  hotel,  often  escaping 
collision  by  the  breadth  of  a  single  hair,  the  driver  singing 
all  the  way.  What  he  sang  I  knew  not:  but  I  doubt 
if  it  was  of  battles  long  ago:  rather,  I  should  fancy, 
of  very  present  love  and  mischief.  But  how  fitting  a 
first  entry  into  Paris  ! 

An  hour  or  so  later  —  it  was  just  twenty  years  ago, 
but  I  remember  it  so  clearly  —  I  observed  written  up  in 
chalk  in  large  emotional  letters  on  a  public  wall  the 
words  "  Vivent  les  femmes  ! "  and  they  seemed  to  me  also 


THE   FOREIGN-NESS   OF  IT  3 

so  odd  —  it  seemed  to  me  so  funny  that  the  sentiment 
should  be  recorded  at  all,  since  women  were  obviously 
going  to  live  whatever  happened  —  that  I  laughed  aloud. 
But  it  was  not  less  characteristic  of  Paris  than  the 
joyous  baritone  notes  that  had  proceeded  from  beneath 
the  white  tall  hat  of  my  cocher.  It  was  as  natural  for 
one  Parisian  to  desire  the  continuance  of  his  joy  as 
a  lover,  even  to  expressing  it  in  chalk  in  the  street,  as 
to  another  to  beguile  with  lyrical  snatches  the  tedium 
of  cab-driving. 

I  was  among  the  Latin  people,  and,  as  I  quickly 
began  to  discover,  I  was  myself,  for  the  first  time,  a 
foreigner.  That  is  a  discovery  which  one  quickly  makes 
in  Paris. 

But  I  have  not  done  yet  with  the  joy  of  entering  and 
re-entering  Paris  in  the  evening  —  after  the  long  smooth 
journey  across  the  marshes  of  Picardy  or  through  the 
orchards  of  Normandy  and  the  valley  of  the  Seine  — 
whichever  way  one  travels.  But  whether  one  travels  by 
Calais,  Boulogne,  Dieppe  or  Havre,  whether  one  alights 
at  the  Gare  du  Nord  or  St.  Lazare,  once  outside  the 
station  one  is  in  Paris  instantly:  there  is  no  debatable 
land  between  either  of  these  termini  and  the  city,  as 
there  is,  for  example,  between  the  Gare  de  Lyons  and 
the  city.  Paris  washes  up  to  the  very  platforms.  A 
few  steps  and  here  are  the  foreign  tables  on  the  pave- 
ments and  the  foreign  waiters,  so  brisk  and  clean, 
flitting  among  them ;  here  are  the  vehicles  meeting  and 
passing  on  the  wrong  or  foreign  side,  and  beyond  that 


4  A  WANDERER  IN  PARIS 

knowing  apparently  no  law  at  all;  here  are  the  deep- 
voiced  newsvendors  shouting  those  magic  words  La 
Patrie  !  La  Patrie  !  which,  should  a  musician  ever  write 
a  Paris  symphony,  would  recur  and  recur  continually 
beneath  its  surface  harmonies.  And  here,  everywhere, 
are  the  foreign  people  in  their  ordered  haste  and  their 
countless  numbers. 

The  pleasure  of  entering  and  re-entering  Paris  in  the 
evening  is  only  equalled  by  the  pleasure  of  stepping 
forth  into  the  street  the  next  morning  in  the  sparkling 
Parisian  air  and  smelling  again  the  pungent  Parisian 
scent  and  gathering  in  the  foreign  look  of  the  place. 
I  know  of  no  such  exuberance  as  one  draws  in  with 
these  first  Parisian  inhalations  on  a  fine  morning  in  May 
or  June  —  and  in  Paris  in  May  and  June  it  is  always  fine, 
just  as  in  Paris  in  January  and  February  it  is  always  cold 
or  wet.  His  would  be  a  very  sluggish  or  disenchanted 
spirit  who  was  not  thus  exhilarated ;  for  here  at  his  feet 
is  the  holiday  city  of  Europe  and  the  clean  sun  over  all. 

And  then  comes  the  question  "  What  to  do  ?  "  Shall 
we  go  at  once  to  "Monna  Lisa?"  But  could  there 
be  a  better  morning  for  the  children  in  the  Champs 
Elysees?  That  beautiful  head  in  the  His  de  la  Salle 
collection  —  attributed  to  the  school  of  Fabriano  !  How 
delightfully  the  sun  must  be  lighting  up  the  red  walls 
of  the  Place  des  Vosges  !  Rodin's  "  Kiss  "  at  the  Lux- 
embourg —  we  meant  to  go  straight  to  that !  The  wheel 
window  in  Notre  Dame,  in  the  north  transept  —  I  have 
been  thinking  of  that  ever  since  we  planned  to  come. 


THE    COMPAS    D'OR  5 

So  may  others  talk  and  act;  but  I  have  no  hesitan- 
cies. My  duty  is  clear  as  crystal.  On  the  first  morning 
I  pay  a  visit  of  reverence  and  delight  to  the  ancient 
auberge  of  the  Compas  d'Or  at  No.  64  Rue  Montor- 
gueil.  And  this  I  shall  always  do  until  it  is  razed  to 
the  earth,  as  it  seems  likely  to  be  under  the  gigantic 
scheme,  beyond  Haussmann  almost,  which  is  to  renovate 
the  most  picturesque  if  the  least  sanitary  portions  of 
old  Paris  at  a  cost  of  over  thirty  millions  of  pounds. 
Unhappy  day  —  may  it  be  long  postponed  !  For  some 
years  now  I  have  always  approached  the  Compas  d'Or 
with  trembling  and  foreboding.  Can  it  still  be  there  ? 
I  ask  myself.  Can  that  wonderful  wooden  hanger  that 
covers  half  the  courtyard  have  held  so  long?  Will 
there  be  a  motor-car  among  the  old  diligences  and 
waggons  ?     But  it  is  always  the  same. 

From  the  street  —  and  the  Rue  Montorgueil  is  as  a 
whole  one  of  the  most  picturesque  and  characteristic 
of  the  older  streets  of  Paris,  with  its  high  white  houses, 
each  containing  fifty  families,  its  narrowness,  its  bar- 
rows of  fruit  and  green  stuff  by  both  pavements,  and 
its  crowds  of  people  —  from  the  street,  the  Compas  d'Or 
is  hardly  noticeable,  for  a  butcher  and  a  cutler  occupy 
most  of  its  facade;  but  the  sign  and  the  old  carvings 
over  these  shops  give  away  the  secret,  and  you  pass 
through  one  of  the  narrow  archways  on  either  side  and 
are  straightway  in  a  romance  by  the  great  Dumas.  Into 
just  such  a  courtyard  would  D'Artagnan  have  dashed, 
and  leaping  from  one  sweating  steed  leap  on  another 


6  A   WANDERER   IN   PARIS 

and  be  off  again  amid  a  shower  of  sparks  on  the  stones. 
Time  has  stood  still  here. 

There  is  no  other  such  old  inn  left.  The  coach  to 
Dreux  —  now  probably  a  carrier's  cart  —  still  regularly 
runs  from  this  spot,  as  it  has  done  ever  since  the 
beginning  of  the  sixteenth  century.  Rows  of  horses 
stand  in  its  massive  stables  and  fill  the  air  with  their 
warm  and  friendly  scent ;  a  score  of  ancient  carts  huddle 
in  the  yard,  in  a  corner  of  which  there  will  probably 
be  a  little  group  of  women  shelling  peas;  beneath  the 
enormous  hanger  are  more  vehicles,  and  masses  of  hay 
on  which  the  carters  sleep.  The  ordinary  noise  of 
Paris  gives  way,  in  this  sanctuary  of  antiquity,  to  the 
scraping  of  hoofs,  the  rattle  of  halter  bolts,  and  the 
clatter  of  the  wooden  shoes  of  ostlers.  It  is  the  past  in 
actual  being  —  Civilisation,  like  Time,  has  stood  still  in 
the  yard  of  the  Compas  d'Or.  That  is  why  I  hasten  to 
it  so  eagerly  and  shall  always  do  so  until  it  disappears 
for  ever.     There  is  nothing  else  in  Paris  like  it. 

And  after  ?  Well,  the  next  thing  is  to  have  lunch. 
And  since  this  lunch  —  being  the  first  —  will  be  the  best 
lunch  of  the  holiday  and  therefore  the  best  meal  of  the 
holiday  (for  every  meal  on  a  holiday  in  Paris  is  a  little 
better  than  that  which  follows  it),  it  is  an  enterprise 
not  lightly  to  be  undertaken.  One  must  decide  carefully, 
for  this  is  to  be  an  extravagance:  the  search  for  the 
little  out-of-the-way  restaurant  will  come  later.  To- 
day we  are  rich. 

This  book  is  not  a  guide  for  the  gastronome  and 


CHEZ  VOISIN  7 

gourmet.  How  indeed  could  it  be,  even  although 
when  heaven  sends  a  cheerful  hour  one  would  scorn  to 
refrain  ?  Yet  none  the  less  it  would  be  pleasant  in 
this  commentary  upon  a  city  illustrious  for  its  culinary 
ingenuity  and  genius  to  say  something  of  restaurants. 
But  what  is  one  to  say  here  on  such  a  theme  ?  Volumes 
are  needed.  Everyone  has  his  own  taste.  For  me 
Voisin's  remains  and  will,  I  imagine,  remain  the  most 
distinguished,  the  most  serene,  restaurant  in  Paris,  in 
its  retired  situation  at  the  corner  of  the  Rue  Sainte- 
Honore  and  the  Rue  Cambon,  with  its  simple  decoration, 
its  unhastening  order  and  despatch,  its  Napoleonic  head- 
waiter,  its  Bacchic  wine-waiter  (with  a  head  that  calls 
for  vine  leaves)  and  its  fastidious  cuisine.  To  Voisin's 
I  should  always  make  my  way  when  I  wished  not  only 
to  be  delicately  nourished  but  to  be  quiet  and  philo- 
sophic and  retired.  Only  one  other  restaurant  do  I 
know  where  the  cooking  gives  me  the  satisfaction  of 
Voisin's  —  where  excessive  richness  never  intrudes  — 
and  that  is  a  discovery  of  my  own  and  not  lightly  to  be 
given  away.  Voisin's  is  a  name  known  all  over  the 
world :  one  can  say  nothing  new  about  Voisin's ;  but 
the  little  restaurant  with  which  I  propose  to  tantalise 
you,  although  the  resort  of  some  of  the  most  thoughtful 
eaters  in  Paris,  has  a  reputation  that  has  not  spread. 
It  is  not  cheap,  it  is  little  less  dear  indeed  than  the 
Cafe  Anglais  or  Paillard's/to  name  the  two  restaurants 
of  renown  which  are  nearest  to  it;  its  cellar  is  poor  and 
limited  to  half  a  dozen  wines ;   its  two  rooms  are  minute 


8  A  WANDERER  IN  PARIS 

and  hot ;  but  the  idea  of  gastronomy  reigns  —  everything 
is  subordinated  to  the  food  and  the  cooking.  If  you 
order  a  trout,  it  is  the  best  trout  that  France  can  breed, 
and  it  is  swimming  in  the  kitchen  at  the  time  the 
solitary  waiter  repeats  your  command ;  no  such  aspara- 
gus reaches  any  other  Paris  restaurant,  no  such  Pre  Sale 
and  no  such  wild  strawberries.  But  I  have  said  enough ; 
almost  I  fear  I  have  said  too  much.  These  discoveries 
must  be  kept  sacred. 

And  for  lunch  to-day?  Shall  it  be  chez  Voisin,  or 
chez  Foyot,  by  the  Senat,  or  chez  Laperouse  (where  the 
two  Stevensons  used  to  eat  and  talk)  on  the  Quai  des 
Augustins  ?     Or  shall  it  be  at  my  nameless  restaurant  ? 

Voisin's  to-day,  I  think. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE    ILE    DE    LA    CITE^ 

Paris  Old  and  New  —  The  Heart  of  France  —  Saint  Louis  —  Old 
Palaces  —  Henri  TV.'s  Statue  —  Ironical  Changes  —  The  Seine  and 
the  Thames  —  The  Quais  and  their  Old  Books  —  Diderot  and  the 
Lady  —  Police  and  Red  Tape  —  The  Conciergerie  —  Marie  An- 
toinette —  Paris  and  its  Clocks  —  Meryon's  Etchings  —  French 
Advocates  —  A  Hall  of  Babel  —  Sainte  Chapelle  —  French  News- 
papers Serious  and  Comic  —  The  Only  Joke  —  The  English  and 
the  French. 

WHERE  to  begin  ?  That  is  a  problem  in  the  writ- 
ing of  every  book,  but  peculiarly  so  with  Paris ; 
because,  however  one  may  try  to  be  chronological,  the 
city  is  such  a  blend  of  old  and  new  that  that  design 
is  frustrated  at  every  turn.  Nearly  every  building  of 
importance  stands  on  the  site  of  some  other  which 
instantly  jerks  us  back  hundreds  of  years,  while  if  we 
deal  first  with  the  original  structure,  such  as  the  re- 
mains of  the  Roman  Thermes  at  the  Cluny,  built  about 
300,  straightway  the  Cluny  itself  intrudes,  and  we  leap 
from  the  third  century  to  the  nineteenth ;  or  if  we  trace 
the  line  of  the  wall  of  Philip  Augustus  we  come  swiftly 
to  so  modern  an  institution  as  the  Mont-de-Piete ;  or 
if  we  climb  to  such  a  recent  thoroughfare  as  the  Boule- 
vard de  Clichy,  with  its  palpitatingly  novel  cabarets 

9 


10  A    WANDERER   IN    PARIS 

and  allurements,  we  must  in  order  to  do  so  ascend  a 
mountain  which  takes  its  name  from  the  martyrdom 
of  St.  Denis  and  his  companions  in  the  third  century. 
It  is  therefore  well,  since  Paris  is  such  a  tangle  of  past 
and  present,  to  disregard  order  altogether  and  to  let 
these  pages  reflect  her  character.  Expect  then,  dear 
reader,  to  be  twitched  about  the  ages  without  mercy. 

Let  us  begin  in  earnest  by  leaving  the  mainland  and 
adventuring  upon  an  island.  For  the  heart  of  Paris  is 
enisled :  Notre  Dame,  Sainte  Chapelle,  the  Palais  de 
Justice,  the  Hotel  Dieu,  the  Prefecture  de  Police,  the 
Morgue  —  all  are  entirely  surrounded  by  water.  The 
history  of  the  Cite  is  the  history  of  Paris,  almost  the 
history  of  France. 

Paris,  the  home  of  the  Parisii,  consisted  of  nothing 
but  this  island  when  Julius  Csesar  arrived  there  with 
his  conquering  host.  The  Romans  built  their  palace 
here,  and  here  Julian  the  Apostate  loved  to  sojourn. 
It  was  in  Julian's  reign  that  the  name  was  changed 
from  Lutetia  (which  it  is  still  called  by  picturesque 
writers)  to  Parisea  Civitas,  from  which  Paris  is  an  easy 
derivative.  The  Cite  remained  the  home  of  govern- 
ment when  the  Merovingians  under  Clovis  expelled  t'ie 
Romans,  and  again  under  the  Carlovingians.  Tl  e 
second  Royal  Palace  was  begun  by  the  first  of  th? 
Capets,  Hugh,  in  the  tenth  century,  and  it  was  com- 
pleted by  Robert  the  Pious  in  the  eleventh.  Louis 
VII.  decreed  Notre  Dame;  but  it  was  Saint  Louis, 
reigning  from  1226  to,  1270,  who  was  the  father  of  the 


THE   GROWTH  OF  PARIS  11 

Cite  as  we  know  it.  He  it  was  who  built  Sainte 
Chapelle,  and  it  was  he  who  surrendered  part  of  the 
Palace  to  the  Law. 

While  it  was  the  home  of  the  Court  and  the  Church 
the  island  naturally  had  little  enough  room  for  ordinary 
residents,  who  therefore  had  to  live,  whether  aristocrats 
or  tradespeople,  on  the  mainland,  either  on  the  north 
or  south  side  of  the  river.  The  north  side  for  the  most 
part  was  given  to  merchants,  the  south  to  scholars, 
for  Saint  Louis  was  the  builder  not  only  of  Sainte 
Chapelle  but  also  of  the  Sorbonne.  Very  few  of  the 
smaller  buildings  of  that  time  now  remain :  the  oldest 
Paris  that  one  now  wanders  in  so  delightedly,  whether 
on  the  north  bank  or  the  south,  whether  near  the  Sor- 
bonne or  the  Hotel  de  Sens,  dates,  with  a  few  fortunate 
exceptions,  from  the  fifteenth  and  sixteenth  centuries. 

Nowhere  may  the  growth  of  Paris  be  better  observed 
and  better  understood  than  on  the  highest  point  on  this 
Island  of  the  City  —  on  the  summit  of  Notre  Dame. 
Standing  there  you  quickly  comprehend  the  Paris  of 
the  ages :  from  Caesar's  Lutetia,  occupying  the  island 
only  and  surrounded  by  fields  and  wastes,  to  the  Paris  of 
this  year  of  our  Lord,  spreading  over  the  neighbouring 
hills,  such  a  hive  of  human  activity  and  energy  as  will 
hardly  bear  thinking  of  —  a  Paris  which  has  thrown  off 
the  yoke  not  only  of  the  kings  that  once  were  all-power- 
ful but  of  the  Church  too. 

By  the  twelfth  century  the  kings  of  France  had  be- 
gun to  live  in  smaller  palaces  more  to  their  personal 


12  A  WANDERER  IN   PARIS 

taste,  such  as  the  Hotel  Barbette,  the  Hotel  de  Sens, 
(much  of  which  still  stands,  as  a  glass  factory,  at  the 
corner  of  the  Rue  d'Hotel  de  Ville  and  the  Rue  de 
Figuier,  one  of  the  oldest  of  the  Paris  mansions),  the 
Hotel  de  Bourgogne  (in  the  Rue  Etienne  Marcel :  you 
may  still  see  its  tower  of  Saint  Jean  Sans  Peur),  the 
Hotel  de  Nevers  (what  remains  of  which  is  at  the 
corner  of  the  Rue  Colbert  and  Rue  Richelieu),  and, 
of  course,  the  Louvre.  Charles  VII.  (1422-1461)  was 
the  first  king  to  settle  at  the  Louvre  permanently. 

To  gain  the  lie  de  la  Cite  we  leave  the  mainland 
of  Paris  at  the  Quai  du  Louvre,  and  make  our  crossing 
by  the  Pont  Neuf.  Neuf  no  longer,  for  as  a  matter  of 
historical  fact  it  is  now  the  oldest  of  all  the  Paris  bridges : 
that  is,  in  its  foundations,  for  the  visible  part  of  it  has 
been  renovated  quite  recently.  The  first  stone  of  it 
was  laid  by  Henri  III.  in  1578:  it  was  not  ready  for 
many  years,  but  in  1603  Henri  IV.  (of  Navarre)  ven- 
tured across  a  plank  of  it  on  his  way  to  the  Louvre, 
after  several  previous  adventurers  had  broken  their 
necks  in  the  attempt.  "  So  much  the  less  kings  they," 
was  his  comment.  He  lived  to  see  the  bridge  fin- 
ished. 

Behind  the  statue  of  this  monarch,  whom  the  French 
still  adore,  is  the  garden  that  finishes  off  the  west  end  of 
the  He  very  prettily,  sending  its  branches  up  above  the 
parapet,  as  Mr.  Dexter's  drawing  shows.  Here  we  may 
stop ;  for  we  are  now  on  the  Island  itself,  midway  be- 
tween the  two  halves  of  the  bridge,  and  the  statue  has 


A  DOUBLE-NAPOLEON  13 

such  a  curious  history,  so  typical  of  the  French  character, 
that  I  should  like  to  tell  it.  The  original  bronze  figure, 
erected  by  Louis  XIII.  in  1614,  was  taken  down  in  1792, 
a  time  of  stress,  and  melted  into  a  commodity  that  was 
then  of  vastly  greater  importance  than  the  effigies  of 
kings  —  namely  cannon.  (As  we  shall  see  in  the  course 
of  this  book,  Paris  left  the  hands  of  the  Revolutionaries 
a  totally  different  city  from  the  Paris  of  1791.)  Then 
came  peace  again,  and  then  came  Napoleon,  and  in  the 
collection  at  the  Archives  is  to  be  seen  a  letter  written 
by  the  Emperor  from  Schonbrunn,  on  August  15th,  1809, 
stating  that  he  wishes  an  obelisk  to  be  erected  on  the 
site  of  the  Henri  IV.  statue  —  an  obelisk  of  Cherbourg 
granite,  180  pieds  d'elevation,  with  the  inscription 
"l'Empereur  Napoleon  au  Peuple  Francais."  That, 
however,  was  not  done. 

Time  passed  on,  Napoleon  fell,  and  Louis  XVIII. 
returned  from  his  English  home  to  the  throne  of  France 
and  was  not  long  in  perpetrating  one  of  those  symmet- 
rical ironical  jests  which  were  then  in  vogue.  Taking 
from  the  Vendome  column  the  bronze  statue  of  Napoleon 
(who  was  safely  under  the  thumb  of  Sir  Hudson  Lowe 
at  St.  Helena,  well  out  of  mischief),  and  to  this  adding 
a  second  bronze  statue  of  the  same  usurper  intended  for 
some  other  site,  the  monarch  directed  that  they  should 
be  melted  into  liquid  from  which  a  new  statue  of  Henri 
IV.  —  the  very  one  at  which  we  are  at  this  moment 
gazing  —  should  be  cast.  It  was  done,  and  though  to 
the  Rontgen-rayed  vision  of  the  cynic  it  may  appear 


14  A  WANDERER  IN   PARIS 

to  be  nothing  more  or  less  than  a  double  Napoleon, 
it  is  to  the  world  at  large  Henri  IV.,  the  hero  of 
Ivry. 

I  have  seen  comparisons  between  the  Seine  and  the 
Thames ;  but  they  are  pointless.  You  cannot  compare 
them:  one  is  a  London  river,  and  the  other  is  a  Paris 
river.  The  Seine  is  a  river  of  light;  the  Thames  is  a 
river  of  twilight.  The  Seine  is  gay;  the  Thames  is 
sombre.  When  dusk  falls  in  Paris  the  Seine  is  just  a 
river  in  the  evening;  when  dusk  falls  in  London  the 
Thames  becomes  a  wonderful  mystery,  an  enchanted 
stream  in  a  land  of  old  romance.  The  Thames  is,  I 
think,  vastly  more  beautiful ;  but  on  the  other  hand,  the 
Thames  has  no  merry  passenger  steamers  and  no  storied 
quais.  The  Seine  has  all  the  advantage  when  we  come  to 
the  consideration  of  what  can  be  done  with  a  river's  banks 
in  a  great  city.  For  the  Seine  has  a  mile  of  old  book 
and  curiosity  stalls,  whereas  the  Thames  has  nothing. 

And  yet  the  coping  of  the  Thames  embankment  is  as 
suitable  for  such  a  purpose  as  that  of  the  Seine,  and  as 
many  Londoners  are  fond  of  books.  How  is  it  ?  Why 
should  all  the  bookstalls  and  curiosity  stalls  of  London 
be  in  Whitechapel  and  Farringdon  Street  and  the  Cattle 
Market  ?  That  is  a  mystery  which  I  have  never  solved 
and  never  shall.  Why  are  the  West  Central  and  the 
West  districts  wholly  debarred  —  save  in  Charing  Cross 
Road,  and  that  I  believe  is  suspect  —  from  loitering  at 
such  alluring  street  banquets  ?  It  is  beyond  under- 
standing. 


THE   BOOK   STALLS  15 

The  history  of  the  stall-holders  of  the  quais  has  been 
told  very  engagingly  by  M.  Octave  Uzanne,  whom  one 
might  describe  as  the  Austin  Dobson  and  the  Augustine 
Birrell  of  France,  in  his  work  Bouquinistes  et  Bouquin- 
eurs.  They  established  themselves  first  on  the  Pont 
Neuf,  but  in  1650  were  evicted.  (The  Paris  bridges,  I 
might  say  here,  become  at  the  present  time  the  resort  of 
every  kind  of  pedlar  directly  anything  occurs  to  suspend 
their  traffic.) 

The  parapets  of  the  quais  then  took  the  place  of  those 
of  the  bridge,  and  there  the  booksellers'  cases  have  been 
ever  since.  But  no  longer  are  they  the  gay  resort  that 
once  they  were.  It  was  considered,  says  M.  Uzanne, 
writing  of  the  eighteenth  century,  "quite  the  correct 
thing  for  the  promenaders  to  gossip  round  the  book- 
stalls and  discuss  the  wit  and  fashionable  writings  of 
the  day.  At  all  hours  of  the  day  these  quarters  were 
much  frequented,  above  all  by  literary  men,  lawyers' 
clerks  and  foreigners.  One  historical  fact,  not  gener- 
ally known,  merits  our  attention,  for  it  shows  that  not 
only  the  libraries  and  the  stall-keepers  assisted  in  draw- 
ing men  of  letters  to  the  vicinity  of  the  Hotel  Mazarin, 
but  there  also  existed  a  '  rendez-vous '  for  the  sale  of 
English  and  French  journals.  It  was,  in  fact,  at  the 
corner  of  the  Rue  Dauphine  and  the  Quai  Conti  that 
the  first  establishment  known  as  the  Cafe  Anglais  was 
started.  One  read  in  big  letters  on  the  sign  board : 
Cafe  Anglais  —  Becket,  proprietaire.  This  was  the 
meeting  place  of  the  greater  part  of  English  writers 


16  A  WANDERER  IN  PARIS 

visiting  Paris  who  wished  to  become  acquainted  with  the 
literary  men  of  the  period,  the  encyclopaedists  and  poets 
of  the  Court  of  Louis  XV.  This  Cafe  offered  to  its 
habitues  the  best-known  English  papers  of  the  day,  the 
Westminster  Gazette,  the  London  Evening  Post,  the  Daily 
Advertiser,  and  the  various  pamphlets  published  on  the 
other  side  of  the  Channel.  .  .  . 

"  You  must  know  that  the  Quai  Conti  up  to  the  year 
1769  was  only  a  narrow  passage  leading  down  to  a  place 
for  watering  horses.  Between  the  Pont  Neuf  and  the 
building  known  as  the  Chateau-Gaillard  at  the  opening 
of  the  Rue  Guenegaud,  were  several  small  shops  and  a 
small  fair  continually  going  on. 

"This  Chateau-Gaillard,  which  was  a  dependency  of 
the  old  Porte  de  Nesle,  had  been  granted  by  Francis  I. 
to  Benvenuto  Cellini.  The  famous  Florentine  gold- 
smith received  visits  from  the  Sovereign  protector  of 
arts  and  here  executed  the  work  he  had  been  ordered 
to  do,  under  his  Majesty's  very  eyes.  .  .  . 

"One  calls  to  mind  that  Sterne,  in  his  delightful 
Sentimental  Journey,  was  set  down  in  1767  at  the  Hotel 
de  Modene,  in  the  Rue  Jacob,  opposite  the  Rue  des  Deux- 
Anges,  and  one  has  not  forgotten  his  love  for  the  quais 
and  the  adventure  which  befell  him  while  chatting  to  a 
bookseller  on  the  Quai  Conti,  of  whom  he  wished  to  buy 
a  copy  of  Shakespeare  so  that  he  might  read  once  more 
Polonius'  advice  to  his  son  before  starting  on  his  travels. 

"Diderot,  in  his  Salon  of  1761,  relates  his  flirtation 
with  the  pretty  girl  who  served  in  one  of  these  shops 


THE  NATIVITY 

LUINI 

(Louvre) 


THE   FREE   READERS  n 

and  afterwards  became  the  wife  of  Menze.  She  called 
herself  Miss  Babuti  and  kept  a  small  book  shop  on  the 
Quai  des  Augustins,  spruce  and  upright,  white  as  a  lily 
and  red  as  a  rose.  I  would  enter  her  shop,  in  my  own 
brisk  way :  "  Mademoiselle,  the  '  Contes  de  la  Fontaine ' 
.  .  .  a '  Petronius '  if  you  please."  —  "  Here  you  are,  Sir. 
Do  you  want  any  other  books  ?"  —  "Forgive  me,  yes." 
—  "  What  is  it  ?  "  —  "  La  '  Religieuse  en  Chemise.' "  — 
"  For  shame,  Sir  !  Do  you  read  such  trash  ?  "  —  "  Trash, 
is  it,  Mademoiselle?     I  did  not  know.  .  .  .'"" 

M.  Uzanne's  pages  are  filled  with  such  charming 
gossip  and  with  character-sketches  of  the  most  famous 
booksellers  and  book-hunters.  One  pretty  trait  that 
would  have  pleased  Mary  Lamb  (and  perhaps  did,  in 
1822,  when  her  brother  took  her  to  the  "Boro'  side  of 
the  Seine")  is  mentioned  by  M.  Uzanne:  "The  stall- 
keeper  on  the  quais  always  has  an  indulgent  eye  for 
the  errand  boy  or  the  little  bonne  [slavey]  who  stops  in 
front  of  his  stall  and  consults  gratis  '  La  Clef  des  Songes ' 
or  the '  Le  Secretaire  des  Dames.'  Who  would  not  com- 
mend him  for  this  kind  toleration  ?  In  fact  it  is  very 
rare  to  find  the  bookseller  in  such  cases  not  shutting 
his  eyes  —  metaphorically  —  and  refraining  from  walk- 
ing up  to  the  reader,  for  fear  of  frightening  her  away. 
And  then  the  young  girl  moves  off  with  a  light  step, 
repeating  to  herself  the  style  of  letter  or  the  explanation 
of  a  dream,  rich  in  hope  and  illusions  for  the  rest  of  the 
day." 

But  the  best  description  of  the  book-hunter  of  the 


18  A   WANDERER   IN   PARIS 

quais  is  that  given  to  Dumas  by  Charles  Nodier.  "  This 
animal,"  he  said,  "has  two  legs  and  is  featherless, 
wanders  usually  up  and  down  the  quais  and  the  boule- 
vards, stopping  at  all  the  old  bookstalls,  turning  over 
every  book  on  them;  he  is  habitually  clad  in  a  coat 
that  is  too  long  for  him  and  trousers  that  are  too  short ; 
he  always  wears  on  his  feet  shoes  that  are  down  at  the 
heel,  a  dirty  hat  on  his  head,  and,  under  his  coat  and 
over  his  trousers,  a  waistcoat  fastened  together  with 
string.  One  of  the  signs  by  which  he  can  be  recognised 
is  that  he  never  washes  his  hands." 

Henri  IV. 's  statue  faces  the  Place  Dauphine  and  the 
west  facade  of  the  Palais  de  Justice.  At  No.  28  in  the 
Place  Dauphine  Madame  Roland  was  born,  little  think- 
ing she  was  destined  one  day  to  be  imprisoned  in  the 
neighbouring  Conciergerie,  which,  to  those  who  can 
face  the  difficulties  of  obtaining  a  ticket  of  admission, 
is  one  of  the  most  interesting  of  the  Island's  many  in- 
teresting buildings.  But  the  process  is  not  easy,  and 
there  is  only  one  day  in  the  week  on  which  the  prison 
is  shown. 

The  tickets  are  issued  at  the  Prefecture  of  Police  — 
the  Scotland  Yard  of  Paris  —  which  is  the  large  building 
opposite  Sainte  Chapelle.  One  may  either  write  or  call. 
I  advise  writing;  for  calling  is  not  as  simple  as  it 
sounds :  simplicity  and  sightseeing  in  Paris  being  indeed 
not  on  the  best  terms.  It  was  not  until  I  had  asked 
five  several  officials  that  I  found  even  the  right  door 
of  the  vast  structure,  and  then  having  passed  a  room 


THE   KINDLY   POLICE  19 

full  of  agents  (or  policemen)  smoking  and  jesting,  and 
having  climbed  to  a  third  storey,  I  was  in  danger  of  los  • 
ing  for  ever  the  privilege  of  seeing  what  I  had  fixed  my 
mind  upon,  wholly  because,  although  I  knew  the  name 
and  street  of  my  hotel,  I  did  not  know  its  number. 
Who  ever  dreamed  that  hotels  have  numbers  ?  Has  the 
Savoy  a  number  in  the  Strand  ?  Is  the  Ritz  numbered 
in  Piccadilly  ?  Not  that  I  was  living  in  any  such 
splendour,  but  still,  on  the  face  of  it,  a  hotel  has  a  name 
because  it  has  no  number.  "  C'est  egal,"  the  gentleman 
said  at  last,  after  a  pantomime  of  impossibility  and 
reproach,  and  I  took  my  ticket,  bowed  to  the  ground, 
replaced  my  hat  and  was  free  to  visit  the  Conciergerie 
on  the  morrow.  Such  are  the  amenities  of  the  tourist's 
life. 

Let  me  here  say  that  the  agents  of  Paris  are  by  far 
its  politest  citizens,  and  in  appearance  the  healthiest. 
I  have  never  met  an  uncivil  agent,  and  I  once  met  one 
who  refused  a  tip  after  he  had  been  of  considerable 
service  to  me.  Never  did  I  attempt  to  tip  another. 
They  have  their  defects,  no  doubt:  they  have  not  the 
authority  that  we  give  our  police:  their  management 
of  traffic  is  pathetically  incompetent ;  but  they  are  street 
gentlemen  and  the  foreigner  has  no  better  friend. 

The  Conciergerie  is  the  building  on  the  Quai  d'Hor- 
loge  with  the  circular  towers  beneath  extinguishers  —  an 
impressive  sight  from  the  bridges  and  the  other  bank  of 
the  river.  Most  of  its  cells  are  now  used  as  rooms  for 
soldiers    (Andre    Chenier's   dungeon    is    one   of    their 


20  A  WANDERER  IN   PARIS 

kitchens) ;  but  a  few  rooms  of  the  deepest  historical 
interest  have  been  left  as  they  were.  These  are  dis- 
played by  a  listless  guide  who  rises  to  animation  only 
when  the  time  comes  to  receive  his  benefice  and  offer  for 
sale  a  history  of  his  preserves. 

One  sees  first  the  vaulted  Salle  Saint  Louis,  called  the 
Salle  des  Pas  Perdus  because  it  was  through  it  that  the 
victims  of  the  Revolution  walked  on  their  way  to  the 
Cour  de  Mai  and  execution.  The  terribly  significant 
name  has  since  passed  to  the  great  lobby  of  the  Palais 
de  Justice  immediately  above  it,  where  it  has  less  ap- 
propriateness. It  is  of  course  the  cell  of  Marie  Antoin- 
ette that  is  the  most  poignant  spot  in  this  grievous  place. 
When  the  Queen  was  here  the  present  room  was  only 
about  half  its  size,  having  a  partition  across  it,  behind 
which  two  soldiers  were  continually  on  guard,  day  and 
night.  The  Queen  was  kept  here,  suffering  every  kind 
of  indignity  and  petty  tyranny,  from  September  11th, 
1793,  until  October  16th.  Her  chair,  in  which  she  sat 
most  of  the  time,  faced  the  window  of  the  courtyard. 

A  few  acts  of  kindness  reached  her  in  spite  of  the 
vigilance  of  the  authorities ;  but  very  few.  I  quote  the 
account  of  two  from  the  official  guide,  a  poor  thing, 
which  I  was  weak  enough  to  buy :  "  The  Queen  had  no 
complaint  to  make  against  the  concierges  Richard  nor 
their  successors  the  Baults.  It  is  told  that  one  day, 
about  the  end  of  August,  Richard  asked  a  fruitseller  in 
the  neighbourhood  to  select  him  the  best  of  her  melons, 
whatever  it  might  cost.      'It  is  for  a  very  important 


A  HUMAN  INTERLUDE  21 

personage  then  ?'  said  the  seller  disdainfully,  looking  at 
the  concierge's  threadbare  clothes.  '  Yes,'  said  he, '  it  is 
for  someone  who  was  once  very  important;  she  is  so  no 
longer;  it  is  for  the  Queen.'  'The  Queen,'  exclaimed 
the  tradeswoman,  turning  over  all  her  melons,  '  the 
Queen  !  Oh,  poor  woman  !  Here,  make  her  eat  that, 
and  I  won't  have  you  pay  for  it.  .  .  .' 

"  One  of  the  gendarmes  on  duty  having  smoked  dur- 
ing the  night,  learnt  the  following  day  that  the  Queen, 
whom  he  noticed  was  very  pale,  had  suffered  from  the 
smell  of  tobacco ;  he  smashed  his  pipe,  swearing  not  to 
smoke  any  more.  It  was  he  also  who  said  to  those  who 
came  in  contact  with  Marie  Antoinette:  'Whatever 
you  do,  don't  say  anything  to  her  about  her  children.'" 

For  her  trial  the  Queen  was  taken  to  the  Tribunal 
sitting  in  what  is  now  the  First  Circle  Chamber  of  the 
Palais  de  Justice,  and  led  back  in  the  evening  to  her 
cell.  She  was  condemned  to  death  on  the  fifteenth,  and 
that  night  wrote  a  letter  to  her  sister-in-law  Elizabeth 
which  we  shall  see  in  the  Archives  Nationales:  it  is 
firmly  written. 

The  Conciergerie  had  many  other  prisoners,  but  none 
so  illustrious.  Robespierre  occupied  for  twenty-four 
hours  the  little  cell  adjoining  that  of  the  Queen,  now 
the  vestry  of  the  chapel.  Madame  Du  Barry  and 
Madame  Recamier  had  cells  adjacent  to  that  of  Madame 
Roland.  Later  Marechal  Ney  was  imprisoned  here. 
The  oldest  part  of  all  —  the  kitchens  of  Saint  Louis  — 
are  not  shown. 


22  A   WANDERER  IN   PARIS 

The  Pont  au  Change,  the  bridge  which  connects  the 
Place  du  Chatelet  with  the  Boulevard  du  Palais,  the 
main  street  of  the  He  de  la  Cite,  was  once  (as  the  Ponte 
Vecchia  at  Florence  still  is)  the  headquarters  of  gold- 
smiths and  small  bankers.  Not  the  least  of  the  losses 
that  civilisation  and  rebuilders  have  brought  upon  us 
is  the  disappearance  of  the  shops  and  houses  from  the 
bridges.     Old  London  Bridge  —  how  one  regrets  that ! 

At  the  corner  of  the  Conciergerie  is  the  Horloge  that 
gives  the  Quai  its  name  —  a  floridly  decorated  clock 
which  by  no  means  conveys  the  impression  that  it  has 
kept  time  for  over  five  hundred  years  and  is  the  oldest 
exposed  time-piece  in  France.  Paris,  by  the  way,  is  very 
poor  in  public  clocks,  and  those  that  she  has  are  not 
too  trustworthy.  The  one  over  the  Gare  St.  Lazare 
has  perhaps  the  best  reputation;  but  time  in  Paris  is 
not  of  any  great  importance.  For  most  Parisians  there 
is  an  inner  clock  which  strikes  with  perfect  regularity 
at  about  twelve  and  seven,  and  no  other  hours  really 
matter.  And  yet  a  certain  show  of  marking  time  is 
made  in  the  hotels,  where  every  room  has  an  elaborate 
ormolu  clock,  usually  under  a  glass  case  and  rarely 
going.  And  in  one  hotel  I  remember  a  large  clock  on 
every  landing,  of  which  I  passed  three  on  my  way  up- 
stairs; and  their  testimony  was  so  various  that  it  was 
two  hours  later  by  each,  so  that  by  the  time  I  had 
reached  my  room  it  was  nearly  time  to  get  up.  On  ask- 
ing the  waiter  the  reason  he  said  it  was  because  they 
were  synchronised  by  electricity. 


MERYON  23 

There  has  been  a  Tour  de  l'Horloge  at  this  corner 
of  the  Conciergerie  ever  since  it  was  ordained  by  Philippe 
le  Bel  in  1299 ;  the  present  clock,  or  at  least  its  scheme 
of  decoration,  dates,  however,  from  Henri  III.'s  reign, 
about  1585.  The  last  elaborate  restoration  was  in 
1852.  In  the  tower  above  was  a  bell  that  was  rung 
only  on  rare  occasions.  The  usual  accounts  of  the 
Massacre  of  St.  Bartholomew  say  that  the  signal  for 
that  outrage  was  sounded  by  the  bell  of  St.  Germain 
l'Auxerrois;  but  others  give  it  to  the  bell  of  the  Tour 
de  l'Horloge.  As  they  are  some  distance  from  each 
other,  perhaps  both  were  concerned;  but  since  St. 
Germain  l'Auxerrois  is  close  to  the  Louvre,  where  the 
King  was  waiting  for  the  carnage  to  begin,  it  is  prob- 
able that  it  rang  the  first  notes. 

One  of  Meryon's  most  impressive  and  powerful  etch- 
ings represents  the  Tour  de  l'Horloge  and  the  facade  of 
the  Conciergerie.  It  is  a  typical  example  of  his  strange 
and  gloomy  genius,  for  while  it  is  nothing  else  in  the 
world  but  what  it  purports  to  be,  it  is  also  quite  unlike 
the  Tour  de  l'Horloge  and  the  facade  of  the  Conciergerie 
as  any  ordinary  eyes  have  seen  them.  They  are  made 
terrible  and  sinister:  they  have  been  passed  through 
the  dark  crucible  of  Meryon's  mind.  To  see  Paris  as 
Meryon  saw  it  needs  a  great  effort  of  imagination,  so 
swiftly  and  instinctively  do  these  people  remove  the 
traces  of  unhappiness  or  disaster.  It  is  the  nature  of 
Paris  to  smile  and  to  forget;  from  any  lapse  into  woe 
she  recovers  with  extraordinary  rapidity. 


24  A  WANDERER   IN  PARIS 

Meryon's  Paris  glowers  and  shudders ;  there  is  blood 
on  her  hands  and  guilt  in  her  heart.  I  will  not  say 
that  this  concept  is  untrue,  because  I  believe  that  the 
concept  formed  by  a  man  of  genius  is  always  true,  al- 
though it  may  not  contain  all  the  truth,  and  indeed  one 
has  to  recall  very  little  history  to  fall  easily  into  Meryon's 
mood ;  but  for  the  visitor  who  has  chosen  Paris  for  his 
holiday  —  the  typical  reader,  for  example,  of  this  book 
—  Mr.  Dexter's  concept  of  Paris  is  a  more  natural  one. 
(I  wish,  by  the  way,  before  it  is  too  late,  that  Mr.  Muir- 
head  Bone  would  devote  some  time  to  the  older  parts  of 
the  city  —  particularly  to  the  Marais.  How  it  lies  to 
his  hand  !) 

Since  we  are  at  the  gates  of  the  Palais  de  Justice,  let 
us  spend  a  little  time  among  the  advocates  and  their 
clients  in  the  great  hall  —  the  Salle  des  Pas  Perdus. 
(In  an  interesting  work,  by  the  way,  on  this  building, 
with  a  preface  by  the  younger  Dumas,  the  amendment, 
"La  Salle  du  temps  perdu"  is  recommended.)  The 
French  law  courts,  as  a  whole,  are  little  different  from 
our  own :  they  have  the  same  stuffiness,  they  give  the 
same  impression  of  being  divided  between  the  initiated 
and  the  uninitiated,  the  little  secret  society  of  the  Bar  and 
the  great  innocent  world.  But  the  Salle  des  Pas  Perdus 
is  another  thing  altogether.  There  is  nothing  like  that 
in  the  Strand.  Our  Strand  counsel  are  a  dignified, 
clean-shaven,  be-wigged  race,  striving  to  appear  old  and 
inscrutable  and  important.  They  are  careful  of  ap- 
pearances;  they  receive  instructions  only  through  soli- 


THE  ADVOCATES  25 

citors;  they  affect  to  weigh  their  words;  sagacious 
reserve  is  their  fetish.  Hence  our  law  courts,  although 
there  are  many  consultations  and  incessant  passings  to 
and  fro,  are  yet  subdued  in  tone  and  overawing  to  the 
talkative. 

But  the  Palais  de  Justice !  —  Babel  was  inaudible 
beside  it.  In  the  Palais  de  Justice  everyone  talks  at 
once ;  no  one  cares  a  sou  for  appearances  or  reticence ; 
there  are  no  wigs,  no  shorn  lips,  no  affectation  of  a 
superhuman  knowledge  of  the  world.  The  French 
advocate  comes  into  direct  communication  with  his 
client  —  for  the  most  part  here.  The  movement  as  well 
as  the  vociferation  is  incessant,  for  out  of  this  great  hall 
open  as  many  doors  as  there  are  in  a  French  farce,  and 
every  door  is  continually  swinging.  Indeed,  that  is  the 
chief  effect  conveyed :  that  one  is  watching  a  farce, 
since  there  has  never  been  a  farce  yet  without  a  legal 
gentleman  in  his  robes  and  black  velvet  cap.  The 
chief  difference  is  that  here  there  are  hundreds  of  them. 
As  a  final  touch  of  humour,  or  lack  of  gravity,  I  may 
add  that  notices  forbidding  smoking  are  numerous,  and 
every  advocate  and  every  client  is  puffing  hard  at  his 
cigarette. 

Victor  Hugo's  Notre  Dame  begins,  it  will  be  remem- 
bered, in  the  great  Hall  of  the  Palais  de  Justice,  where 
Gringoire's  neglected  mystery  play  was  performed  and 
Quasimodo  won  the  prize  for  ugliness.  The  Hall,  as 
Hugo  says,  was  burned  in  1618:  by  a  fire  which,  he 
tells  us,  was  made  necessary  by  the  presence  in  the 


26  A   WANDERER   IN   PARIS 

archives  of  the  Palais  of  the  documents  in  the  case  of 
the  assassination  of  Henri  IV.  by  Ravaillac.  Certain  of 
Ravaillac's  accomplices  and  instigators  wishing  these 
papers  to  disappear,  the  fire  followed  as  a  matter  of 
course,  as  naturally  as  in  China  a  house  had  to  be 
burned  down  before  there  could  be  roast  pig. 

Sainte  Chapelle,  which,  with  the  kitchens  of  Saint 
Louis  under  the  Conciergerie,  is  all  that  remains  of 
the  royal  period  of  the  Palais  de  Justice,  is,  except  on 
Mondays,  always  open  during  the  reasonable  daylight 
hours  and  is  wholly  free  from  vexatious  restrictions. 
Sanctity  having  passed  from  it,  the  French  sightseers 
do  not  even  remove  their  hats,  although  I  have  noticed 
that  the  English  and  Americans  still  find  the  habit  too 
strong.  The  Chapelle  may  easily  disappoint,  for  such 
is  the  dimness  of  its  religious  light  that  little  is  visible 
save  the  dark  coloured  windows.  One  is,  however, 
conscious  of  perfect  proportions  and  such  ecclesiastical 
elegance  as  paint  and  gold  can  convey.  It  is  in  fact 
exquisite,  yet  not  with  an  exquisiteness  of  simplicity  but 
of  design  and  elaboration.  It  is  like  a  jewel  —  almost 
a  trinket  —  which  Notre  Drme  might  ha/e  once  worn 
on  her  breast  and  tired  of.  Its  fleche  is  really  beauti- 
ful ;  it  darts  into  the  sky  with  only  less  assurance  and 
joy  than  that  of  Notre  Dame,  and  I  always  look  up 
with  pleasure  to  the  angel  on  the  eastern  point  of  the 
roof. 

What  one  has  the  greatest  difficulty  in  believing  is 
that  Saint  Chapelle  is  six  hundred  and  fifty  years  old. 


LA  VIERGE   AUX   ROCHERS 

LEONARDO   DA    VINCI 

(Louvre) 


A   CITY  OF   JOURNALISTS  27 

It  was  built  for  the  relics  brought  from  the  Crusades 
by  Saint  Louis,  which  are  now  in  the  Treasury  of  Notre 
Dame.  The  Chapel  has,  of  course,  known  the  restorer's 
hand,  but  it  is  virtually  the  original  structure,  and 
some  of  the  original  glass  is  still  here  preserved  amid 
reconstructions.  To  me  Sainte  Chapelle's  glass  makes 
little  appeal ;  but  many  of  my  friends  talk  of  nothing 
else.  Let  us  thank  God  for  differences  of  taste.  Dur- 
ing the  Commune  (as  recently  as  1871)  an  attempt  was 
made  to  burn  Sainte  Chapelle,  together  with  the  Palais 
de  Justice,  but  it  just  failed.  That  was  the  third  fire 
it  has  survived. 

From  Sainte  Chapelle  we  pass  through  the  Rue  de 
Lutece,  which  is  opposite,  across  the  Boulevard,  because 
there  is  a  statue  here  of  some  interest  —  that  of  Re- 
naudon,  who  lived  in  the  first  half  of  the  seventeenth 
century  at  No.  8  Quai  du  Marche  Neuf,  close  by,  and 
founded  in  1631  the  first  French  newspaper,  the  Gazette 
de  France.  Little  could  he  have  foreseen  the  conse- 
quences of  his  rash  act !  It  is  amusing  to  stand  here 
a  while  and  meditate  on  the  torrent  that  has  proceeded 
from  that  small  spring.  Other  cities  have  as  busy  a 
journalistic  life  as  Paris,  and  in  London  the  paper  boys 
are  more  numerous  and  insistent,  while  in  London  we 
have  also  the  contents'  bills,  which  are  unknown  to 
France;  and  yet  Paris  seems  to  me  to  be  more  a  city 
of  newspapers  than  even  London  is.  Perhaps  it  is  the 
kiosques   that  convey   the   impression. 

The  London  paper  and  the  Paris  papers  could  not 


28  A  WANDERER  IN  PARIS 

well  be  more  different.  In  the  matter  of  size,  Paris,  I 
think,  has  all  the  advantage,  for  one  may  read  every- 
thing in  a  few  minutes;  but  in  the  matter  of  ingredients 
the  advantage  surely  lies  with  us,  for  although  English 
papers  tell  far  too  much,  and  by  their  own  over-curious- 
ness  foster  inquisitiveness  and  busy-bodydom,  yet  they 
have  some  sense  of  what  is  important,  and  one  can 
always  find  the  significant  news  by  hunting  for  it. 
In  Paris  this  is  less  easy.  What  one  will  find,  however, 
is  a  short  story  or  a  literary  essay  written  with  distinction, 
an  anecdote  of  the  day  by  no  means  adapted  for  the 
young  person,  and  a  number  of  trumpery  tragedies  of 
passion  or  excess,  minutely  told.  The  signed  articles 
are  always  good,  and  when  critical  usually  fearless, 
but  the  unsigned  notices  of  a  new  play  or  spectacle 
credit  it  with  perfection  in  every  detail ;  and  here,  at 
any  rate,  as  in  our  best  reviews  of  books,  we  are  in  a 
position  to  feel  some  of  the  satisfaction  that  proceeds 
from  conscious  superiority. 

But  it  has  to  be  remembered  in  Paris,  people  go  to  the 
theatre  automatically,  whereas  we  pick  and  choose  and 
have  our  reasons ;  and  therefore  an  honest  criticism  of 
a  play  is  of  little  importance  there.  The  Paris  Daily 
Mail  seems  to  have  fallen  into  line  very  naturally,  for  I 
find  in  it  on  the  morning  on  which  I  write  these  lines 
a  puff  of  the  Capucines  revue,  saying  that  it  kept  the 
house  in  continous  laughter  by  its  innocent  fun,  and 
will  doubtless  draw  all  Paris.  As  if  (i)  the  laughter  of 
any  Paris  theatre  was  ever  continuous,  and  as  if  (ii) 


THE   ONE   JOKE  29 

there  was  ever  any  innocent  fun  at  the  Capucines,  and  as 
if  (iii)  all  Paris  would  go  near  that  theatre  if  there  were  ! 

One  reason,  I  imagine,  for  the  diffuscness  of  the 
English  paper  and  the  brevity  of  the  French,  is  that 
the  English  have  so  little  natural  conversation  tli;;t 
they  find  it  useful  to  acquire  news  on  which  to  base 
more ;  while  the  French  need  no  such  assistance.  The 
English  again  are  interested  in  other  nations,  whereas 
the  French  care  nothing  for  any  land  but  France. 
There  is  no  space  in  which  to  continue  this  not  un- 
tempting  analysis:  it  would  require  much  room,  for 
to  understand  thoroughly  the  difference  between,  say, 
the  Daily  Telegraph  and  the  Journal  is  to  understand 
the  difference  between  England  and  France. 

The  French  comic  papers  one  sees  everywhere  —  ex- 
cept in  people's  hands.  I  suppose  they  are  bought,  or 
they  would  not  be  published ;  but  I  have  hardly  ever 
observed  a  Frenchman  reading  one  that  was  his  own 
property.  The  fault  of  the  French  comic  paper  is 
monotony.  Voltaire  accused  the  English  of  having 
seventy  religions  and  only  one  sauce;  my  quarrel  with 
the  French  is  that  they  have  seventy  sauces  and  only 
one  joke.  This  joke  you  meet  everywhere.  Artists 
of  diabolical  cleverness  illustrate  it  in  colours  every 
week;  versifiers  and  musicians  introduce  it  into  songs; 
comic  singers  sing  it;  playwrights  dramatise  it;  nov- 
elists and  journalists  weave  it  into  prose.  It  is  the 
oldest  joke  and  it  is  ever  new.  Nothing  can  prevent  a 
Parisian  laughing  at  it  as  if  it  were  as  fresh  as  his  roll, 


30  A  WANDERER   IN   PARIS 


his  journal  or  his  petit  Gervais.  For  a  people  with  a 
world-wide  reputation  for  wit,  this  is  very  strange ;  but 
in  some  directions  the  French  are  incorrigibly  juvenile, 
almost  infantine.  Personally  I  envy  them  for  it.  I 
think  it  must  be  charming  never  to  grow  out  of  such  an 
affection  for  indecency  that  even  a  nursery  mishap 
can  still  be  always  funny. 

One  of  the  comic  papers  must,  however,  be  exempted 
from  these  generalisations.  Le  Rire,  Le  Journal  Amus- 
ant,  La  Vie  Parisienne  and  the  scores  of  cheaper  imita- 
tions may  depend  for  their  living  on  the  one  joke;  but 
L'Assiette  au  Beurre  is  more  serious.  L'Assiette  au 
Beurre  is  first  and  foremost  a  satirist.  It  chastises 
continually,  and  its  whip  is  often  scorpions.  Even  its 
lighter  numbers,  chiefly  given  to  ridicule,  contain 
streaks  of  savagery. 

At  the  end  of  the  brief  Rue  de  Lutece  is  the  great 
Hotel  Dieu,  the  oldest  hospital  in  Paris,  having  been 
founded  in  the  seventh  century ;  and  to  the  left  of  it  is 
one  of  the  Paris  flower  markets,  where  much  beautiful 
colour  may  be  seen  very  formally  and  unintelligently 
arranged.  Gardens  are  among  those  things  that  we 
order  (or  shall  I  say  disorder  ?)  better  than  the  French 
do. 

And  now  we  will  enter  Notre  Dame. 


CHAPTER   III 


NOTRE    DAME 


Pagan  Origins  and  Christian  Predecessors  —  The  beginnings  of  Notre 
Dame  —  Victor  Hugo  —  The  Dangers  of  Renovation  —  Old  Glass 
and  New  —  A  Wedding  —  The  Cathedral's  Great  Moment  —  The 
Hundred  Poor  Girls  and  Louis  XVI.  —  The  Revolution  —  Mrs. 
Momoro,  Goddess  of  Reason  —  The  Legend  of  Our  Lady  of  the 
Bird  —  Coronation  of  Napoleon  —  The  Communards  and  the 
Students  —  The  Treasures  of  the  Sacristy  —  Three  Hundred  and 
Ninety-seven  Steps  —  Quasimodo  and  Esmeralda  —  Paris  at  our 
Feet  _  The  Eiffel  Tower  —  The  Devils  of  Notre  Dame  —  The  Pre- 
cincts —  Notre  Dame  from  the  Quai. 

IF  the  He  de  la  Cite  is  the  eye  of  Paris,  then,  to 
adapt  one  of  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes'  metaphors, 
Notre  Dame  is  its  pupil.  It  stands  on  ground  that  has 
been  holy,  or  at  least  religious,  for  many  centuries,  for 
part  of  its  site  was  once  occupied  by  the  original  mother 
church  of  Paris,  St.  Etienne,  built  in  the  fourth  century ; 
and  close  by,  in  the  Place  du  Parvis,  have  been  dis- 
covered the  foundations  of  another  church,  dating  from 
the  sixth  century,  dedicated  to  Saint  Marie;  while 
beneath  that  are  the  remains  of  a  Temple  of  Apollo  or 
Jupiter,  relics  of  which  we  shall  see  at  the  Cluny.  The 
origin  of  Notre  Dame,  the  fusion  of  these  two  churches, 
is  wrapped   in  darkness;    but  Victor  Hugo  roundly 

31 


32  A   WANDERER  IN  PARIS 

states  that  the  first  stone  of  it  was  laid  by  Charlemagne 
(who  reigned  from  768  to  814,  and  whose  noble  eques- 
trian statue  stands  just  outside),  and  the  last  by  Philip 
Augustus,  who  was  a  friend  of  our  Richard  Coeur  de 
Lion.  The  more  usual  account  of  the  older  parts  of 
the  Notre  Dame  that  one  sees  to-day  is  that  the  first 
stone  of  it  was  laid  in  1163,  in  the  reign  of  Louis  VII. 
by  Pope  Alexander  III.,  who  chanced  then  to  be  in 
Paris  engaged  in  the  task  of  avoiding  his  enemies,  the 
Ghibellines,  and  that  in  almost  exactly  a  hundred  years, 
in  the  reign  of  Saint  Louis,  it  was  completed.  (I  say 
completed,  but  as  a  matter  of  fact  it  is  not  completed 
even  yet,  for  each  of  the  square  towers  was  designed 
to  carry  a  spire,  and  I  remember  seeing  at  the  Paris 
Exhibition  of  1889  a  number  of  drawings  of  the  cathedral 
by  young  architects,  with  these  spires  added.  It  is, 
however,  very  unlikely  that  they  will  ever  sprout,  and 
I,  for  one,  hope  not.) 

Victor  Hugo  is,  of  course,  if  not  the  first  authority 
on  Notre  Dame,  its  most  sympathetic  poet,  lover  and 
eulogist;  and  it  seems  ridiculous  for  me  to  attempt 
description  when  every  book  shop  in  Paris  has  a  copy 
of  his  rich  and  fantastic  romance,  Book  III.  of  which 
is  an  interlude  in  the  story  wholly  given  to  the  glory 
of  the  cathedral.  You  may  read  there  not  only  of  what 
Notre  Dame  is,  but  of  what  it  is  not  and  should  be: 
the  shortcomings  of  architects  and  the  vandalism  of 
mobs  are  alike  reported.  Mobs  !  Paris  is  seared  with 
cicatrices  from  the  hands  of  her  matricidal  children,  and 


NOTRE   DAME  33 

Notre  Dame  especially  so.  Attempts  to  set  her  on  fire 
were  made  not  only  by  the  revolutionaries  but  by 
the  Communards  too.  These  she  resisted,  but  much  of 
her  statuary  went  during  the  Revolution,  the  assailants 
sparing  the  Last  Judgment  on  the  facade,  but  account- 
ing very  swiftly  for  a  series  of  kings  of  Israel  and  Judah 
(who,  however,  have  since  been  replaced)  under  the  im- 
pression that  they  were  monarchs  of  native  growth  and 
therefore  not  to  be  endured. 

The  statue  of  the  Virgin  in  the  centre  of  the  facade, 
with  Adam  and  Eve  on  each  side,  is  not,  I  may  say,  the 
true  Notre  Dame  of  Paris:  She  is  within  the  church 
—  much  older  and  simpler,  on  a  column  to  the  right  of 
the  altar  as  we  face  it.  She  is  a  sweeter  and  more 
winning  figure  than  that  between  our  first  parents  on 
the  facade. 

When  I  first  knew  Notre  Dame  it  was,  to  the  visitor 
from  the  open  air,  all  scented  darkness.  And  then  as 
one  grew  accustomed  to  the  gloom  the  cathedral  opened 
slowly  like  a  great  flower  —  not  so  beautifully  as  Char- 
tres,  but  with  its  own  grandeur  and  fascination.  That 
was  twenty  years  ago.  It  is  not  the  same  since  it  has 
been  scraped  and  lightened  within.  That  old  clinging 
darkness  has  gone.  There  are  times  of  day  now,  when 
the  sun  spatters  on  the  wall,  when  it  might  be  almost 
any  church;  but  towards  evening  in  the  gloom  it  is 
Notre  Dame  de  Paris  again,  mysterious  and  a  little 
sinister.  A  bright  light  not  only  chases  the  shade  from 
its  aisles  and  recesses  but  also  shows  up  the  garishness  of 


34  A   WANDERER   IN   PARIS 

its  glass.  For  the  glass  of  France,  usually  bad,  is  here 
often  almost  at  its  worst.  That  glorious  wheel  window 
in  the  North  transept  —  whose  upper  wall  has  indeed 
more  glass  than  stone  in  it  —  could  not  well  be  more 
beautiful,  and  the  rose  window  over  the  organ  is  beauti- 
ful too.  But  for  the  rest,  the  glass  is  either  too  pretty, 
as  in  the  case  of  the  window  over  the  altar,  so  lovely  in 
shape,  or  utterly  trumpery. 

The  last  time  I  was  in  Notre  Dame  I  followed  a 
wedding  party  through  the  main  and  usually  locked 
door,  but  although  I  was  the  first  after  the  bride  and 
her  father,  I  was  not  quick  enough  to  set  foot  on  the 
ceremonial  carpet,  which  a  prudent  verger  rolled  up 
literally  upon  their  heels.  It  was  a  fortunate  moment 
on  which  to  arrive,  for  it  meant  a  vista  of  the  nave  from 
the  open  air  right  up  the  central  aisle,  and  that,  except 
in  very  hot  weather,  is  rare,  and  probably  very  rare 
indeed  when  the  altar  is  fully  lighted. 

The  secret  of  Notre  Dame,  both  within  and  without, 
is  to  be  divined  only  by  loitering  in  it  with  a  mind  at 
rest.  To  enter  intent  upon  seeing  it  is  useless.  Outside, 
one  can  walk  round  it  for  ever  and  still  be  surprised  by 
the  splendid  vagaries,  humours  and  resource  of  its  stone ; 
while  within,  one  can,  by  making  oneself  plastic,  gradu- 
ally but  surely  attain  to  some  of  the  adoration  that  was 
felt  for  the  sanctuary  by  Quasimodo  himself.  Let  us 
sit  down  on  one  of  these  chairs  in  the  gloom  and  meditate 
on  some  of  the  scenes  which  its  stones  have  witnessed. 

While  it  was  yet  building  Raymond  VIII.,  Count  of 


HISTORIC    MOMENTS  35 

Toulouse,  was  scourged  before  the  principal  doorway  for 
heresy,  on  a  spot  where  the  pillory  long  stood.  That 
was  in  1229.  In  1248  St.  Louis,  on  his  way  to  the  Holy 
Land,  visited  Notre  Dame  to  receive  his  pilgrim's  staff 
and  scrip  from  the  Bishop.  In  1270  the  body  of  St. 
Louis  lay  in  state  under  this  roof  before  it  was  carried 
to  St.  Denis  for  burial.  Henry  VI.  of  England  was 
crowned  here  as  King  of  France  —  the  first  and  last 
English  king  to  receive  that  honour.  One  Sunday  in 
1490,  while  Mass  was  being  celebrated,  a  man  called 
Jean  l'Anglais  (as  we  should  now  say,  John  Bull) 
snatched  the  Host  from  the  priest's  hand  and  profaned 
it:  for  which  crime  he  was  burnt.  In  1572  Henri  IV. 
(then  Henri  of  Navarre)  was  married  to  Marguerite  de 
Valois,  but  being  a  Protestant  he  was  not  allowed  within 
the  church,  and  the  ceremony  was  therefore  performed 
just  outside.  When,  however,  he  entered  Paris  trium- 
phantly as  a  conqueror  and  a  Catholic  in  1594,  he 
heard  Mass  and  assisted  at  the  Te  Deum  in  Notre  Dame 
like  a  true  Frenchman  and  ironist.  In  1611  his  funeral 
service  was  celebrated  here. 

Some  very  ugly  events  are  in  store  for  us ;  let  some- 
thing pretty  intervene.  On  February  9th,  1779  (in  the 
narrative  of  Louise  de  Grandpre,  to  whom  the  study  of 
Notre  Dame  has  been  a  veritable  passion),  a  large  crowd 
pressed  towards  the  cathedral ;  the  ground  was  strewed 
with  fresh  grass  and  flowers  and  leaves ;  the  pillars  were 
decorated  with  many  coloured  banners.  In  the  choir 
the  vestments  of  the  saints  were  displayed :  the  burning 


36  A  WANDERER   IN  PARIS 

tapers  lit  up  the  interior  with  a  dazzling  brightness: 
the  organ  filled  the  church  with  joyful  harmony,  and 
the  bells  rang  out  with  all  their  might.  The  whole 
court  was  present,  the  King  himself  assisting  at  the 
ceremony,  and  the  galleries  were  full  to  overflowing  of 
ladies  of  distinction  in  the  gayest  of  dresses. 

Then  slowly,  through  the  door  of  St.  Anne,  en- 
tered a  hundred  young  girls  dressed  in  white,  covered 
with  long  veils  and  with  orange  blossom  on  their  heads. 
These  were  the  hundred  poor  girls  whom  Louis  XVI. 
had  dowered  in  memory  of  the  birth  of  Marie-Therese- 
Charlotte  of  France,  afterwards  Duchess  of  Angouleme, 
and  it  was  his  wish  to  assist  personally  at  their  wedding 
and  to  seal  their  marriage  licences  with  his  sword,  which 
was  ornamented  on  the  handle  or  pommel  with  the 
"fleur  de  lys." 

Through  the  door  of  the  Virgin  entered  at  the  same 
time  one  hundred  young  men,  having  each  a  sprig  of 
orange  blossom  in  his  button-hole.  The  two  rows  ad- 
vanced together  with  measured  steps,  preceded  by  two 
Swiss,  who  struck  the  pavement  heavily  with  their 
halberds.  They  advanced  as  far  as  the  chancel  rails, 
where  each  young  man  gave  his  hand  to  a  young  girl, 
his  fiancee,  and  marched  slowly  before  the  King,  bowing 
to  him  and  receiving  a  bow  in  return.  They  were  then 
married  by  the  Archbishop  in  person. 

A  very  charming  incident,  don't  you  think  ?  Such  a 
royal  gift,  adds  Louise  de  Grandpre,  would  be  very  wel- 
come to-day,  when  there  are  so  many  girls  unmarried, 


SAINTE  ANNE,   LA  VIERGE,  ET  L'ENFANT  JESUS 

LEONARDO    DA   VINCI 

{Louvre) 


THE   CULT   OF  REASON  37 

for  the  want  of  a  dot.  Every  rich  young  girl  who  is 
married  ought  to  include  in  her  corbeille  de  noces  the 
dot  of  some  poor  girl.  All  women,  remarks  Louise  de 
Grandpre,  have  a  right  to  this  element  of  love,  which  is 
sanctified  by  marriage,  honoured  by  men  and  blessed 
by  God.  Christian  marriage,  says  Louise  de  Grandpre, 
is  a  nursery  not  only  of  good  Catholics  but  still  more 
of  good  citizens,  It  is  much  to  be  wished,  she  concludes, 
that  obstacles  could  be  removed,  because  one  deplores 
the  depopulation  of  France. 

The  most  fantastic  and  discreditable  episode  in  the 
history  of  Notre  Dame  occurred  one  hundred  and  fifteen 
years  ago,  when  the  Convention  decreed  the  Cult  of 
Reason,  and  Notre  Dame  became  its  Temple.  A  ballet 
dancer  was  throned  on  the  high  altar,  Our  Lady  of 
Paris  was  taken  down,  and  statues  of  Voltaire  and  Rous- 
seau stepped  into  the  niches  of  the  saints.  Carlyle  was 
never  more  wonderful  than  in  the  three  or  four  pages 
that  describe  this  cataclysm.  He  begins  with  the  revolt 
of  the  Curate  Parens,  followed  by  Bishop  Gobel  of  Paris 
clamouring  for  an  honest  calling  since  there  was  no 
religion  but  Liberty. 

"  The  French  nation,"  Carlyle  writes,  "  is  of  gregari- 
ous imitative  nature ;  it  needed  but  a  fugle-motion  in 
this  matter;  and  Goose  Gobel,  driven  by  Municipality 
and  force  of  circumstances,  has  given  one.  What  Cure 
will  be  behind  him  of  Boissise ;  what  Bishop  behind  him 
of  Paris  ?  Bishop  Gregoire,  indeed,  courageously  de- 
clines ;  to  the  sound  of  '  We  force  no  one ;  let  Gregoire 


38  A  WANDERER  IN  PARIS 

consult  his  conscience';  but  Protestant  and  Romish  by 
the  hundred  volunteer  and  assent.  From  far  and  near, 
all  through  November  into  December,  till  the  work  is 
accomplished,  come  letters  of  renegation,  come  Curates 
who  '  are  learning  to  be  Carpenters,'  Curates  with  their 
new-wedded  Nuns :  has  not  the  day  of  Reason  dawned, 
very  swiftly,  and  become  noon  ?  From  sequestered 
Townships  come  Addresses,  stating  plainly,  though  in 
Patois  dialect,  that  'they will  have  no  more  to  do  with 
the  black  animal  called  Curay,  animal  noir  appelle  Curay. 
"Above  all  things,  there  come  Patriotic  Gifts,  of 
Church-furniture.  The  remnant  of  bells,  except  for 
tocsin,  descend  from  their  belfries,  into  the  National 
melting-pot  to  make  cannon.  Censers  and  all  sacred 
vessels  are  beaten  broad ;  of  silver,  they  are  fit  for  the 
poverty-stricken  Mint;  of  pewter,  let  them  become 
bullets,  to  shoot  the  'enemies  du  genre  humain.'  Dal- 
matics of  plush  make  breeches  for  him  who  had  none; 
linen  albs  will  clip  into  shirts  for  the  Defenders  of  the 
Country:  old-clothesmen,  Jew  or  Heathen,  drive  the 
briskest  trade.  Chalier's  Ass-Procession,  at  Lyons,  was 
but  a  type  of  what  went  on,  in  those  same  days,  in  all 
Towns.  In  all  Towns  and  Townships  as  quick  as  the 
guillotine  may  go,  so  quick  goes  the  axe  and  the  wrench : 
sacristies,  lutrins,  altar-rails  are  pulled  down ;  the  Mass- 
Books  torn  into  cartridge-papers :  men  dance  the  Car- 
magnole all  night  about  the  bonfire.  All  highways 
jingle  with  metallic  Priest-tackle,  beaten  broad ;  sent  to 
the  Convention,  to  the  poverty-stricken  Mint.     Good 


THE   GODDESS   OF  REASON  39 

Sainte  Genevieve's  Chasse  is  let  down :  alas,  to  be  burst 
open,  this  time,  and  burnt  on  the  Place  de  Greve. 
Saint  Louis's  Shirt  is  burnt;  —  might  not  a  Defender  of 
the  Country  have  had  it  ?  .  .  . 

"For  the  same  day,  while  this  brave  Carmagnole- 
dance  has  hardly  jigged  itself  out,  there  arrive  Pro- 
cureur  Chaumette  and  Municipals  and  Departmentals, 
and  with  them  the  strangest  freightage:  a  New  Re- 
ligion !  Demoiselle  Candeille,  of  the  Opera ;  a  woman 
fair  to  look  upon,  when  well  rouged;  she,  borne  on 
palanquin  shoulder-high;  with  red  woollen  nightcap; 
in  azure  mantle;  garlanded  with  oak;  holding  in  her 
hand  the  Pike  of  the  Jupiter-Pewp/e,  sails  in :  heralded 
by  white  young  women  girt  in  tricolour.  Let  the  world 
consider  it !  This,  O  National  Convention  wonder  of 
the  universe,  is  our  New  Divinity ;  Goddess  of  Reason, 
worthy,  and  alone  worthy  of  revering.  Her  henceforth 
we  adore.  Nay,  were  it  too  much  to  ask  of  an  august 
National  Representation  that  it  also  went  with  us  to 
the  ci-devant  Cathedral  called  of  Notre-Dame,  and  exe- 
cuted a  few  strophes  in  worship  of  her  ? 

"President  and  Secretaries  give  Goddess  Candeille, 
borne  at  due  height  round  their  platform,  successively 
the  Fraternal  kiss;  whereupon  she,  by  decree,  sails  to 
the  right  hand  of  the  President  and  there  alights.  And 
now,  after  due  pause  and  flourishes  of  oratory,  the  Con- 
vention, gathering  its  limbs,  does  get  under  way  in  the 
required  procession  towards  Notre-Dame;  —  Reason, 
again  in  her  litter,  sitting  in  the  van  of  them,  borne,  as  one 


40  A  WANDERER  IN  PARIS 

judges,  by  men  in  the  Roman  costume ;  escorted  by  wind- 
music,  red  nightcaps,  and  the  madness  of  the  world.  .  .  . 
"'The  corresponding  Festival  in  the  Church  of  Saint- 
Eustache,'  says  Mercier,  '  offered  the  spectacle  of  a 
great  tavern.  The  interior  of  the  choir  represented 
a  landscape  decorated  with  cottages  and  boskets  of 
trees.  Round  the  choir  stood  tables  overloaded  with 
bottles,  with  sausages,  pork-puddings,  pastries  and 
other  meats.  The  guests  flowed  in  and  out  through 
all  doors :  whosoever  presented  himself  took  part  of  the 
good  things:  children  of  eight,  girls  as  well  as  boys, 
put  hand  to  plate,  in  sign  of  Liberty;  they  drank  also 
of  the  bottles,  and  their  prompt  intoxication  created 
laughter.  Reason  sat  in  azure  mantle  aloft,  in  a  serene 
manner;  Cannoneers,  pipe  in  mouth,  serving  her  as 
acolytes.  And  out  of  doors,'  continues  the  exaggera- 
tive man,  'were  mad  multitudes  dancing  round  the 
bonfire  of  Chapel-balustrades,  of  Priests'  and  Canons' 
stalls ;  and  the  dancers,  —  I  exaggerate  nothing,  —  the 
dancers  nigh  bare  of  breeches,  neck  and  breast  naked, 
stockings  down,  went  whirling  and  spinning,  like  those 
Dust-vortexes,  forerunners  of  Tempest  and  Destruction.' 
At  Saint-Gervais  Church,  again,  there  was  a  terrible 
'smell  of  herrings';  Section  or  Municipality  having 
provided  no  food,  no  condiment,  but  left  it  to  chance. 
Other  mysteries,  seemingly  of  a  Cabiric  or  even  Paphian 
character,  we  leave  under  the  Veil,  which  appropriately 
stretches  itself  '  along  the  pillars  of  the  aisles,'  —  not  to 
be  lifted  aside  by  the  hand  of  History. 


CARLYLE  41 

"  But  there  is  one  thing  we  should  like  almost  better 
to  understand  than  any  other:  what  Reason  herself 
thought  of  it,  all  the  while.  What  articulate  words 
poor  Mrs.  Momoro,  for  example,  uttered ;  when  she 
had  become  ungoddessed  again,  and  the  Bibliopolist 
and  she  sat  quiet  at  home,  at  supper  ?  For  he  was  an 
earnest  man,  Bookseller  Momoro;  and  had  notions  of 
Agrarian  Law.  Mrs.  Momoro,  it  is  admitted,  made 
one  of  the  best  Goddesses  of  Reason ;  though  her  teeth 
were  a  little  defective.  —  And  now  if  the  Reader  will 
represent  to  himself  that  such  visible  Adoration  of 
Reason  went  on  'all  over  the  Republic,'  through  these 
November  and  December  weeks,  till  the  Church  wood- 
work was  burnt  out,  and  the  business  otherwise  com- 
pleted, he  will  perhaps  feel  sufficiently  what  an  adoring 
Republic  it  was,  and  without  reluctance  quit  this  part 
of  the  subject." 

I  quote  in  the  following  pages  freely  from  Carlyle, 
because  the  Revolution  is  the  most  important  event  in 
the  history  of  Paris  and  so  horribly  recent  (you  may 
still  see  the  traces  of  Buonaparte's  whiff  of  grape-shot 
on  the  facade  of  St.  Roch),  and  also  because  when 
there  is  such  an  historian  to  borrow  from  direct,  para- 
phrase becomes  a  crime.  None  the  less,  I  feel  it  my 
duty  to  say  that  the  attitude  of  this  self-protective 
contemptuous  superior  Scotchman  towards  the  excit- 
able French  and  their  hot-headed  efforts  for  freedom 
often  enrages  me  as  much  as  his  vivid  narrative  fascin- 
ates and  moves. 


42  A  WANDERER   IN   PARIS 

In  1794,  when  the  New  Religion  had  died  down,  the 
Church  became  a  store  for  wine  confiscated  from  the 
Royalists.  In  the  year  following,  after  the  whiff  of 
grape-shot,  the  old  religion  was  re-established.  A 
strange  interregnum  !  How  long  ago  was  this  ?  —  only 
one  hundred  and  fifteen  years  —  not  four  generations. 
Could  it  happen  again  ?     Will  it  ?  .  .  . 

These  revolutionaries,  it  may  be  remarked,  were  not 
the  only  licentious  rioters  that  Notre  Dame  had  known, 
for  in  its  early  days  it  was  the  scene  every  year  of  the 
Fete  des  Fous,  an  orgy  of  gluttony  and  conviviality,  in 
which,  however,  one  who  was  a  true  believer  on  all  other 
days  might  partake. 

After  these  lurid  saturnalia  it  is  pleasant  again  to  dip 
into  the  gentle  pages  of  Louise  de  Grandpre,  where, 
among  other  legends  of  Notre  Dame,  is  the  pretty  story 
of  a  statue  of  theVirgin  —  now  known  as  the  Virgin  with 
the  bird.  In  the  Rue  Chanoinesse  there  lived  a  young 
woman,  very  devout,  who  came  every  day  to  pray. 
She  brought  with  her  her  son,  a  little  fellow,  very 
wide  awake  and  full  of  spirits:  his  mother  had  taught 
him  to  say  his  prayers.  Cyril  would  closefiis  little 
hands  to  say  his  "Ave  Maria,"  and  he  would  throw 
a  kiss  to  the  little  Jesus,  his  dear  friend,  complaining 
sometimes  to  his  mother  that  the  little  Jesus  would  not 
play  with  him.  "  You  are  not  good  enough  yet,"  said 
his  mother ;  "  Jesus  plays  only  with  the  little  children  in 
Paradise." 

A   very   severe   winter    fell    and    the  young   mother 


THE  VIRGIN  WITH  THE   BIRD  43 

fell  ill  and  no  longer  came  to  church.  Cyril  never  saw 
the  little  Jesus  now,  but  he  often  thought  of  Him  as  he 
played  at  the  foot  of  his  mother's  bed.  On  one  of  those 
days  when  the  sky  was  dull  and  leaden  and  the  air 
heavy  and  depressing,  and  the  poor  woman  was  rather 
worse  and  more  hopeless  than  usual,  she  became  so 
weak  they  thought  each  moment  would  be  her  last. 

Cyril  could  not  understand  why  his  mother  no  longer 
smiled  at  him  or  stroked  his  hair  or  called  him  to  her. 
With  his  little  heart  almost  bursting  and  his  eyes  full 
of  tears,  he  said,  "  I  will  go  and  tell  the  little  Jesus  of 
my  trouble." 

While  they  were  attending  to  the  poor  mother  the 
child  disappeared.  He  ran  as  fast  as  his  little  legs 
would  carry  him  and  entered  the  cathedral  by  the 
cloister  door,  crossed  the  transept,  and  was  soon  at  the 
foot  of  the  statue  of  the  Virgin  Mary,  where  he  was 
accustomed  to  say  his  prayers  with  his  mother.  "  Little 
Jesus,"  said  he,  "  Thou  art  very  happy.  Thou  hast  Thy 
Mother;  mine,  who  was  so  good,  is  always  asleep  now 
and  I  am  alone.  Little  Jesus,  wake  my  mother  up,  and 
I  will  glie  you  my  best  toys,  morning  and  evening  I 
will  send  you  the  sweetest  kiss  and  say  my  best  prayer. 
And  look,  to  begin  with,  I  have  brought  you  my 
favourite  bird :  he  is  tame  and  will  eat  the  golden 
crumbs  of  Paradise  out  of  your  hand."  At  the  same 
time  he  stretched  out  his  little  closed  hand  towards 
Jesus. 

The  divine  child  stretched  out  His  hand  and  Cyril  let 


44  A   WANDERER   IN   PARIS 

his  beloved  little  bird  escape.  The  bird,  who  had  a 
lovely  coloured  plumage,  flew  straight  to  the  hand  of 
the  Infant  Christ  and  has  remained  there  to  this  day. 
The  Virgin  smiled  on  the  child,  and  her  white  stone 
robe  at  that  moment  became  the  same  colour  as  the 
bird's  plumage. 

Cyril,  with  his  heart  very  full,  got  up  to  go  out,  but 
before  leaving  the  church  turned  round  to  have  one 
more  look  at  his  little  bird  he  loved  so  dearly :  he  was 
struck  with  delight  and  astonishment  when  he  heard 
the  favoured  bird  singing  one  of  its  sweetest  songs  in 
honour  of  the  Virgin  and  her  Child. 

When  Cyril  returned  to  his  home  he  went  into  his 
mother's  room  without  making  the  least  noise  to  see  if 
she  was  still  asleep.  The  young  mother  was  sitting  up- 
right in  her  bed,  her  head,  still  very  bad,  resting  on  a 
pillow,  but  her  wide-open  eyes  were  looking  for  her 
little  one. 

"I  was  quite  sure  the  little  Jesus  would  wake  you 
up,"  said  Cyril,  climbing  on  to  her  bed.  "  I  took  Him 
my  bird  this  morning  to  take  care  of  for  me  in  the 
Garden  of  Paradise." 

Life  once  more  returned  to  the  poor  woman  and  she 
kissed  her  boy. 

When  you  next  go  to  Notre  Dame,  Louise  de 
Grandpre  adds,  be  sure  to  visit  the  Vierge  a  l'oiseau, 
who  always  hears  the  prayers  of  the  little  ones. 

It  was  in  1804  that  Notre  Dame  enjoyed  one  of 
its  most  magnificent  moments  —  at  the  coronation  of 


THE   EMPEROR   CROWNED  45 

Napoleon  and  Josephine  Beauharnais.  The  Duchess 
d'Abrantes  wrote  an  account  of  the  ceremony  which,  in 
French,  is  both  picturesque  and  rapturous.  "  The  pope 
was  the  first  to  arrive.  At  the  moment  of  his  entering 
the  cathedral,  the  clergy  intoned  Tu  es  Petrus,  and 
this  solemn  chant  made  a  deep  impression  on  all.  Pius 
the  VII.  advanced  to  the  end  of  the  cathedral  with  a 
majestic  yet  humble  grace.  .  .  .  The  moment  when 
all  eyes  were  most  drawn  to  the  Altar  steps  was  when 
Josephine  received  the  crown  from  the  Emperor  and 
was  solemnly  consecrated  by  him  Empress  of  the  French. 
When  it  was  time  for  her  to  take  an  active  part  in  the 
great  ceremony,  the  Empress  descended  from  the  throne 
and  advanced  towards  the  altar,  where  the  Emperor 
awaited  her.  .  .  . 

"  I  saw,"  the  Duchess  continues,  "  all  that  I  have  just 
told  you,  with  the  eyes  of  Napoleon.  He  was  radiant 
with  joy  as  he  watched  the  Empress  advancing  towards 
him ;  and  when  she  knelt  .  .  .  and  the  tears  she  could 
not  restrain  fell  upon  her  clasped  hands,  raised  more  to- 
wards him  than  towards  God :  at  this  moment,  when 
Napoleon,  or  rather  Bonaparte,  was  for  her  her  true 
providence,  at  this  instant  there  was  between  these  two 
beings  one  of  those  fleeting  moments  of  life,  unique, 
which  fill  up  the  void  of  years. 

"The  Emperor  invested  with  perfect  grace  every 
action  of  the  ceremony  he  had  to  perform :  above  all, 
at  the  moment  of  crowning  the  Empress.  This  was  to 
be  done  by  the  Emperor  himself,  who  after  receiving 


46  A  WANDERER  IN   PARIS 

the  little  closed  crown  surmounted  by  a  cross,  had  to 
place  it  on  his  own  head  first,  and  then  place  it  on  the 
Empress's  head.  He  did  this  in  such  a  slow,  gracious 
and  courtly  manner  that  it  was  noticed  by  all.  But  at 
the  supreme  moment  of  crowning  her  who  was  to  him 
his  lucky  star,  he  was  almost  coquettish,  if  I  may  use 
the  term.  He  placed  the  little  crown,  which  surmounted 
the  diadem  of  brilliants,  on  her  head,  first  putting  it  on, 
then  taking  it  off  and  putting  it  on  again,  as  if  assuring 
himself  that  it  should  rest  lightly  and  softly  on  her. 

"  But  Napoleon,"  the  Duchess  concludes,  "  when  it 
came  to  his  own  crown,  hastily  took  it  from  the  Pope's 
hands  and  placed  it  haughtily  on  his  own  head  —  a  pro- 
ceeding which  doubtless  startled  his  Holiness." 

Ten  years  pass  and  we  find  Louis  XVIII.  and  his 
family  attending  Mass  at  the  same  altar.  Twenty-six 
years  later,  in  1840,  a  service  was  held  to  commemorate 
the  restoration  of  the  ashes  of  the  Emperor  to  French 
soil,  and  in  1853  Napoleon  III.  and  Eugenie  de  Montijo 
were  married  here,  under  circumstances  of  extraordinary 
splendour.  And  then  we  come  to  plunder  and  lawless- 
ness again.  On  Good  Friday,  1871,  while  Pere  Olivier 
was  preaching,  a  company  of  Communards  entered  and 
from  thenceforward  for  a  while  the  cathedral  was  occu- 
pied by  the  soldiers.  For  some  labyrinthine  reason  the 
destruction  of  Notre  Dame  by  fire  was  decided  upon, 
and  a  huge  pile  of  chairs  and  other  material  soaked  in 
petrol  was  erected  (this  was  only  thirty-eight  years  ago), 
and  no  doubt  the  building  would  have  been  seriously 


LA  PENSEE 

RODIN 
(Luxembourg) 


SACRED   RELICS  47 

injured,  if  not  destroyed,  had  not  the  medical  students 
from  the  Hotel  Dieu,  close  by,  rushed  in  and  saved  it. 

Among  the  preachers  of  Notre  Dame  was  St  Dominic, 
to  whom  in  the  pulpit  the  Virgin  appeared,  bringing 
with  her  his  sermon  all  to  his  hand  in  an  effulgent 
volume;  here  also  preached  Pere  Hyacinthe,  but  with 
less  direct  assistance. 

That  the  Treasury  is  an  object  of  interest  to  English- 
speaking  visitors  is  proved  by  the  notice  at  the  door: 
"  The  Persons  who  desire  to  visit  the  Tresor  are  kindly 
requested  to  wait  the  guide  here  for  a  few  minutes, 
himself  charged  of  the  visit;"  but  I  see  no  good  reason 
why  anyone  should  enter  it.  Those,  however,  that  do 
will  see  vessels  of  gold,  much  paraphernalia  of  ecclesi- 
astical pride  and  pomp,  and  certain  holy  relics.  The 
crown  of  thorns  is  here,  given  to  St.  Louis  by  the  King 
of  Constantinople  and  carried  to  Notre  Dame,  on  the 
18th  of  August,  1239,  by  the  barefoot  king.  Here 
also  are  pieces  of  the  Cross,  for  the  protection  of  which 
St.  Louis  built  Sainte  Chapelle,  the  relics  afterwards 
being  transferred  to  Notre  Dame;  and  here  is  a  nail 
from  the  Cross  —  one  of  the  nails  of  which  even  an 
otherwise  sceptical  Catholic  can  be  sure,  because  it  was 
given  to  Charlemagne  by  Constantine.  Charlemagne 
gave  it  to  Aix  la  Chapelle,  Charles  the  Bold  brought  it 
from  Aix  to  St.  Denis,  and  from  St.  Denis  it  came 
to  Notre  Dame,  where  it  is  enclosed  in  a  crystal  case. 

The  menace  of  397  spiral  steps  in  a  narrow,  dark  and 
almost  airless  turret,  is  no  light  matter,  but  it  is  essential 


48  A  WANDERER  IN  PARIS 

to  see  Paris  from  the  summit  of  Notre  Dame.  That 
view  is  the  key  to  the  city,  and  the  traveller  who  means 
to  study  this  city  as  it  deserves,  penetrating  into  the 
past  as  industriously  and  joyously  as  into  the  present, 
must  begin  here.  He  will  see  it  all  beneath  him  and 
around  him  in  its  varying  ages,  and  he  will  be  able  to 
proceed  methodically  and  intelligently.  Immediately 
below  is  the  Parvis,  the  scene  of  the  interrupted  exe- 
cution of  Esmeralda,  and  it  was  from  one  of  the  galleries 
below  that  Quasimodo  slung  himself  down  to  her  rescue. 
Here,  where  we  are  now  standing,  she  must  often  have 
stood,  looking  for  her  faithless  Phcebus.  Only  one  of 
the  bells  that  Quasimodo  rang  is  still  in  the  tower. 

Hugo  draws  attention  to  the  shape  of  the  island,  like 
that  of  a  ship  moored  to  the  mainland  by  various 
bridges,  and  he  suggests  that  the  ship  on  the  Paris 
scutcheon  (the  ship  that  is  to  be  seen  in  the  design  of 
the  lamps  around  the  Opera)  is  derived  from  this  re- 
semblance. It  may  be  so.  On  each  side  of  us,  north 
and  south,  are  the  oldest  parts  of  Paris  that  still  stand ; 
in  the  north  the  Marais,  behind  the  Tour  Saint- Jacques, 
and  in  the  south  the  district  between  the  Rue  de  Bievre 
and  the  boulevard  St.  Michel.  On  the  south  side  of 
the  river  lived  the  students,  clerics  and  professors  — 
Dante  himself  among  them,  in  this  very  Rue  de  Bievre, 
as  we  shall  see ;  while  in  the  Marais,  as  we  shall  also  see, 
dwelt  the  nobility.  West  of  St.  Eustache  in  the  Middle 
Ages  was  nothing  but  waste  ground  and  woodland,  a 
kind  of  Bois,  at  the  edge  of  which,  where  the  Louvre 


A   BIRD'S-EYE  VIEW  49 

now  spreads  itself,  was  a  royal  hunting  lodge,  the  germ 
of  the  present  vast  palace. 

When  the  Marais  passed  out  of  favour,  the  aristocracy 
crossed  the  river  to  the  St.  Germain  quarter,  which 
clusters  around  the  twin  spires  of  St.  Clotilde  that  now 
rise  in  the  south-west.  And  then  the  Rue  Saint-Honore 
and  the  Grands  Boulevards  were  built,  and  so  the  city 
grew  and  changed  until  the  two  culminating  touches 
were  put  to  it :  by  M.  Eiffel,  who  built  the  tower,  and 
M.  Abadie,  architect  of  the  beautiful  and  unreal  Basi- 
lique  du  Sacre-Coeur  that  crowns  the  heights  of  Mont- 
martre. 

The  chief  eminences  that  one  sees  are,  near  at  hand, 
the  needle-spire  of  Sainte  Chapelle,  in  the  north  the 
grey  mass  of  St.  Eustache,  the  Chatelet  Theatre  (ad- 
vertising at  this  moment  "Les  Pilules  du  Diable"  in 
enormous  letters),  the  long  roofs  of  the  Halles,  and  the 
outline  of  the  medieval  Tour  Saint-Jacques.  Farther 
west  the  bulky  Opera,  then,  right  in  front,  the  Tro- 
cadero's  twin  towers,  with  Mont  Valerien  looming  up 
immediately  between  them ;  and  so  round  to  the  south 
—  to  the  Invalides  and  St.  Clotilde,  the  Pantheon  and 
the  heights  of  Genevieve.     A  wonderful  panorama. 

Of  all  the  views  of  Paris  I  think  that  from  Notre 
Dame  is  the  most  interesting,  because  the  point  is  most 
central;  but  the  views  from  Montmartre,  from  the 
Tour  Saint-Jacques,  the  Pantheon  and  the  Arc  de 
Triomphe  should  be  studied  too.  The  Eiffel  Tower  has 
dwarfed  all  those  eminences ;  they  lie  far  below  it,  mere 


50  A   WANDERER   IN   PARIS 

ant-hills  in  the  landscape,  although  they  seem  high 
enough  when  one  essays  their  steps;  yet,  although  it 
makes  them  so  lowly,  these  older  coigns  of  vantage 
should  not  for  a  moment  be  considered  as  superseded, 
for  each  does  for  its  immediate  vicinage  what  the 
Eiffel  giant  can  never  do.  From  the  Arc  de  Triomphe, 
for  example,  you  command  all  the  luxurious  activity 
of  the  Avenue  du  Bois  de  Boulogne  and  the  wonderful 
prospect  of  the  Champs  Elysees,  ending  with  the  Louvre ; 
and  from  the  Pantheon  you  may  examine  the  roofs  of 
the  Latin  Quarter  and  see  the  children  at  play  in  the 
gardens  of  the  Luxembourg. 

The  merit  of  the  Eiffel  Tower  is  that  he  shows  you 
not  only  Paris  to  the  ultimate  edges  in  every  direction 
save  on  the  northern  slopes  of  Montmartre,  but  he  shows 
you  (almost)  France  too.  How  long  the  Eiffel  Tower 
is  to  stand  I  cannot  say,  but  I  for  one  shall  feel  sorry 
and  bereft  when  he  ceases  to  straddle  over  Paris.  For 
though  he  is  vulgar  he  is  great,  and  he  has  come  to  be 
a  symbol.  When  he  goes,  he  will  make  a  strange  rent 
in  the  sky.  This  year  (1909)  is  his  twentieth:  he  and 
I  first  came  to  Paris  at  the  same  time;  but  his  life  is 
serene  to-day  compared  with  what  it  was  in  his  infancy. 
At  that  time  his  platforms  were  congested  from  morn 
to  dusk;  but  few  visitors  now  ascend  even  to  the  first 
stage  and  hardly  any  to  the  top.  No  visitor,  however, 
who  wants  to  synthcsise  Paris  should  omit  this  adven- 
ture. Only  in  a  balloon  can  one  get  a  better  view,  but 
in  no  balloon  adrift  from  this  green  earth  would  I,  for 


THE   DEVILS  51 

one,  ever  trust  myself,  although  I  must  confess  that  the 
procession  of  those  aerial  monsters  that  floated  serenely 
past  the  Eiffel  Tower  on  the  last  occasion  that  I  climbed 
it,  suggested  nothing  but  content  and  security.  They 
rose  one  by  one  from  the  bosky  depths  of  the  Bois, 
five  miles  away,  gradually  disentangled  themselves  from 
the  surrounding  verdure,  assumed  their  independent 
buoyant  rotundity  and  came  straight  to  my  waiting 
eye.  In  an  hour  I  counted  fifteen,  and  by  the 
time  the  last  was  free  of  the  earth  the  first  was 
away  over  Vincennes,  with  the  afternoon  sun  turning 
its  mud-coloured  silk  to  burnished  gold.  Paris  has 
always  one  balloon  floating  above  her,  but  fifteen  is 
exceptional. 

Notre  Dame  remains,  however,  the  most  important 
height  to  scale,  for  Notre  Dame  is  interesting  in  every 
particular,  it  is  soaked  in  history  and  mystery.  Notre 
Dame  is  alone  in  the  possession  of  its  devils  —  those 
strange  stone  fantasies  that  Meryon  discovered.  Al- 
though every  effort  is  made  to  familiarise  us  with  them 
—  although  they  sit  docilely  as  paper-weights  on  our 
tables  —  nothing  can  lessen  the  monstrous  diablerie 
of  these  figures,  which  look  down  on  Paris  with  such 
greed  and  cruelty,  cunning  and  cynicism.  The  best 
known,  the  most  saturnine,  of  all,  who  leans  on  the 
parapet  exactly  by  the  door  at  the  head  of  the  steps, 
fixes  his  inhuman  gaze  on  the  dome  of  the  Invalides. 
Is  it  to  be  wondered  at  that  he  wears  that  ex- 
pression ? 


52  A   WANDERER  IN   PARIS 

A  small  family  dwells  in  a  room  just  behind  this 
chimera,  subsisting  by  the  sale  of  picture-postcards.  It 
is  a  strange  abode,  and  an  imaginative  child  would  have 
a  good  start  in  life  there.  To  him  at  any  rate  the 
demons  no  doubt  would  soon  lose  their  terrors  and 
become  as  friendly  as  the  heavenly  host  that  are  posed 
so  radiantly  and  confidently  on  the  ascent  to  the  fleche 

—  perhaps  even  more  so.  But  to  the  stranger  they 
must  remain  cruel  and  horrible,  creating  a  sense  of 
disquietude  and  alarm  that  it  is  surely  the  business  of 
a  cathedral  to  allay.    Curious  anomaly  !   Let  us  descend. 

Before  leaving  the  He  de  la  Cite,  the  Rue  Chanoinesse, 
to  the  north  of  Notre  Dame,  leading  out  of  the  Rue 
d'Arcole  (near  a  blackguard  pottery  shop),  should  be 
looked  at.  The  cloisters  of  Notre  Dame  once  extended 
to  this  street  and  covered  the  ground  between  it  and  the 
cathedral.  The  canons,  or  chanoines,  lived  here,  and 
there  are  still  a  few  attractive  old  houses;  but  the 
rebuilder  is  very  busy  just  now.  At  No.  10,  Fulbert, 
the  uncle  of  Heloise,  is  said  to  have  lived;  at  No.  18 
was  the  Tour  Dagobert,  a  fifteenth-century  building, 
by  climbing  which  one  had  an  excellent  view  of  Notre 
Dame,  but  in  the  past  year  it  has  been  demolished  and 
business  premises  cover  its  site.  At  No.  26  are  (or 
were)  the  ruins  of  the  twelfth-century  chapel  of  St. 
Aignan,  where  the  faithful,  evicted  from  Notre  Dame 
by  the  Reign  of  Reason,  celebrated  Mass  in  secret. 
Saint  Bernard  has  preached  here.     The  adjacent  streets 

—  the  Rue  de  Colombe,  Rue  Massillon,  Rue  des  Ursins 


BALTHASAR   CASTIGLIONE 

RAPHAEL 

{Louvre) 


LEAVING  NOTRE  DAME  53 

and  Rue  du  Cloitre-Notre-Dame  —  have  also  very  old 
houses. 

For  the  best  view  of  the  exterior  of  Notre  Dame  one 
must  take  the  Quai  de  l'Archeveche,  from  which  all 
its  intricacies  of  masonry  may  be  studied  —  its  but- 
tresses solid  and  flying,  its  dependencies,  its  massive 
bulk,   its  grace  and  strength. 


CHAPTER  IV 

ST.    LOUIS    AND    HIS    ISLAND 

The  Morgue  —  The  He  St.  Louis  —  Old  Residents  —  St.  Louis,  the 
King  —  The  Golden  Legend  —  Religious  Intolerance  —  Posthu- 
mous Miracles  —  Statue  of  Barye  —  The  Quai  des  Celestins. 

ON  the  way  from  Notre  Dame  to  the  He  of  St.  Louis 
we  pass  a  small  official-looking  building  at  the 
extreme  east  end  of  the  He  de  la  Cite.  It  is  the 
Morgue. 

But  the  Morgue  is  now  closed  to  idle  gazers,  and  you 
win  your  way  to  a  sight  of  that  melancholy  slab  with 
the  weary  bodies  on  it  and  the  little  jet  of  water  play- 
ing on  each,  only  by  the  extreme  course  of  having  missed 
a  relation  whom  you  suspected  of  designs  upon  his  own 
life  or  whom  you  imagine  has  been  the  victim  of  foul 
play.  No  doubt  the  authorities  were  well  advised  (as 
French  municipal  authorities  nearly  always  are)  in  clos- 
ing the  Morgue;  but  I  think  I  regret  it.  The  impulse 
to  drift  into  that  low  and  sinister  building  behind  Notre 
Dame  was  partly  morbid,  no  doubt;  but  the  ordinary 
man  sees  not  only  too  little  death,  but  is  too  seldom  in 
the  presence  of  such  failure  as  for  the  most  part  governs 
here :  so  that  the  opportunity  it  gave  was  good. 

54 


A   DERELICT   ISLAND  55 

I  still  recall  very  vividly,  in  spite  of  all  the  millions 
of  living  faces  that  should,  one  feels,  have  blurred  one's 
prosperous  vision,  several  of  the  dead  faces  that  lay 
behind  the  glass  of  this  forlorn  side-show  of  the  great 
entertainment  which  we  call  Paris.  An  old  man  with  a 
white  imperial ;  more  than  one  woman  of  that  dreadful 
middle-age  which  the  Seine  has  so  often  terminated ;  a 
young  man  who  had  been  stabbed.  .  .  .  Well,  the 
Morgue  is  closed  to  the  public  now,  and  very  likely  no 
one  who  reads  this  book  will  ever  enter  it. 

The  He  St.  Louis,  to  put  it  bluntly,  is  just  as  common- 
place as  the  He  de  la  Cite  is  imposing.  It  has  a  mono- 
tony very  rare  in  the  older  parts  of  Paris :  it  is  all  white 
houses  that  have  become  dingy:  houses  that  once  were 
attractive  and  wealthy  and  are  now  squalid.  One  of  the 
largest  of  the  old  palaces  is  to-day  a  garage;  there  is 
not  a  single  house  now  occupied  by  the  kind  of  tenant 
for  which  it  was  intended.  Such  declensions  are  always 
rather  melancholy,  even  when,  as,  for  example,  at  Ville- 
neuve,  near  Avignon,  there  is  the  beauty  of  decay  too. 
But  on  the  He  St.  Louis  there  is  no  beauty:  it  belongs 
to  a  dull  period  of  architecture  and  is  now  duller  for  its 
dirt.  Standing  on  the  Quai  d'Orleans,  however,  one 
catches  Notre  Dame  against  the  evening  sky,  across  the 
river,  as  nowhere  else,  and  it  is  necessary  to  seek  the  He 
if  only  to  appreciate  the  fitness  of  the  Morgue's  position. 

The  island  was  first  called  LTle  Notre  Dame,  and  was 
uninhabited  until  1614.  It  was  then  developed  and 
joined  to  the  He  de  la  Cite  and  the  mainland  by  bridges. 


56  A   WANDERER   IN  PARIS 

The  chief  street  is  the  Rue  St.  Louis,  at  No.  3  in  which 
lived  Fenelon.  The  church  of  St.  Louis  is  interesting 
for  a  relic  of  the  unfortunate  Louise  de  la  Valliere.  At 
No.  17  on  the  Quai  d'Anjou  is  the  Hotel  Lauzan,  which 
the  city  of  Paris  has  now  acquired,  and  in  which  once 
lived  together  for  a  while  the  authors  of  Mademoiselle  de 
Mawpin  and  Les  Fleurs  de  Mai. 

Of  Saint  Louis,  or  Louis  IX.,  who  gives  his  name  to 
this  island,  and  whose  hand  is  so  visible  in  the  He  de  la 
Cite,  it  is  right  to  know  something,  for  he  was  the  father 
of  Paris.  Louis  was  born  in  1215,  the  year  of  Magna 
Charta,  and  succeeded  to  the  throne  while  still  a  boy. 
The  early  years  of  his  reign  were  restless  by  reason  of 
civil  strife  and  war  with  England,  in  which  he  was  victor 
(at  Tailleburg,  at  Saintes  and  at  Blaize),  and  then  came 
his  departure  for  the  Holy  Land,  with  40,000  men,  in 
fulfilment  of  a  vow  made  rashly  on  a  sick-bed.  The 
King  was  blessed  at  Notre  Dame,  as  we  have  seen,  and 
departed  in  1248,  leaving  his  mother  Blanche  de  Castile 
as  regent.  But  the  Crusade  was  a  failure,  and  he  was 
glad  to  return  (with  only  the  ghost  of  his  army)  and  to 
settle  down  for  the  first  time  seriously  to  the  cares  of 
his  throne. 

He  was  a  good  if  prejudiced  king:  he  built  wisely 
and  well,  not  only  Sainte  Chapelle,  as  we  have  seen,  but 
the  Sorbonne ;  he  devised  useful  statutes ;  he  established 
police  in  Paris ;  and,  more  perhaps  than  all,  he  made 
Frenchmen  very  proud  of  France.  So  much  for  his  ad- 
ministrative virtues.     When  we  come  to  his  saintliness 


A  ROYAL   SAINT  57 

I  would  stand  aside,  for  is  he  not  in  The  Golden  Legend  ? 
Listen  to  William  Caxton:  "He  forced  himself  to 
serve  his  spirit  by  diverse  castigation  or  chastising,  he 
used  the  hair  many  times  next  his  flesh,  and  when  he 
left  it  for  cause  of  over  feebleness  of  his  body,  at  the 
instance  of  his  own  confessor,  he  ordained  the  said  con- 
fessor to  give  to  the  poor  folk,  as  for  recompensation  of 
every  day  that  he  failed  of  it,  forty  shillings.  He  fasted 
always  the  Friday  and  namely  in  time  of  lent  and  ad- 
vent he  abstained  him  in  those  days  from  all  manner 
of  fish  and  from  fruits,  and  continually  travailed  and 
pained  his  body  by  watchings,  orisons,  and  other  secret 
abstinences  and  disciplines.  Humility,  beauty  of  all  vir- 
tues, replenished  so  strong  in  him,  that  the  more  better  he 
waxed,  so,  as  David,  the  more  he  showed  himself  meek 
and  humble,  and  more  foul  he  reputed  him  before  God. 
"  For  he  was  accustomed  on  every  Saturday  to  wash 
with  his  own  hands,  in  a  secret  place,  the  feet  of  some 
poor  folk,  and  after  dried  them  with  a  fair  towel,  and 
kissed  much  humbly  and  semblably,  their  hands,  distri- 
buting or  dealing  to  every  one  of  them  a  certain  sum  of 
silver,  also  to  seven  score  poor  men  which  daily  came  to 
his  court,  he  administered  meat  and  drink  with  his  own 
hands,  and  were  fed  abundantly  on  the  vigils  solemn. 
And  on  some  certain  days  in  the  year  to  two  hundred 
poor,  before  that  he  ate  or  drank,  he  with  his  own  hands 
administered  and  served  them  both  of  meat  and  drink. 
He  ever  had,  both  at  his  dinner  and  supper,  three  ancient 
poor,  which  ate  nigh  to  him,  to  whom  he  charitably 


58  A   WANDERER  IN   PARIS 

sent  of  such  meats  as  were  brought  before  him,  and 
sometimes  the  dishes  and  meats  that  the  poor  of  our 
Lord  had  touched  with  their  hands,  and  special  the  sops 
of  which  he  fain  ate,  made  their  remnant  or  relief  to  be 
brought  before  him,  to  the  end  that  he  should  eat  it; 
and  yet  again  to  honour  and  worship  the  name  of  our 
Lord  on  the  poor  folk,  he  was  not  ashamed  to  eat  their 
relief." 

Qualities  have  their  defects,  and  such  a  frame  of  mind 
as  that  can  lead,  for  all  the  good  motive,  to  injustice 
and  even  cruelty.  Christ's  lesson  of  the  Roman  coin 
is  forgotten  as  quickly  as  any.  Louis'  passion  for 
holiness,  which  became  a  kind  of  self-indulgence,  led 
him  into  a  hard  and  ugly  intolerance  and  acts  of  severe 
oppression  against  those  whom  he  styled  heretics.  His 
short  way  with  the  Jews  recalled  indeed  those  of  our 
own  King  John,  who  was  very  nearly  his  contemporary. 
I  know  not  if  he  pulled  out  their  teeth,  but  he  once 
did  what  must  have  been  as  bad,  if  not  worse,  for  he 
published  an  ordinance  "  for  the  good  of  his  soul,"  re- 
mitting to  his  Christian  subjects  the  third  of  their 
debts  to  the  Jews;  and  he  also  expressed  it  as  his 
opinion  that  "a  layman  ought  not  to  dispute  with  an 
unbeliever,  but  strike  him  with  a  good  sword  across  the 
body,"  the  most  practical  expression  of  muscular  sec- 
tarianism that  I  know.  Louis'  religious  fanaticism  was, 
however,  his  end  ;  for  he  was  so  ill-advised  as  to  under- 
take a  new  Crusade  against  the  unbelievers  of  Morocco, 
and  there,  while  laying  siege  to  Tunis,  he  died  of  the 


POSTHUMOUS   MIRACLES  59 

plague.  That  was  in  1270,  when  he  was  only  fifty- 
five. 

Twenty-seven  years  later  Pope  Boniface  the  Eighth 
raised  him  to  the  Calendar  of  Saints,  his  day  being 
August  25th.  But  according  to  The  Golden  Legend, 
which  I  for  one  implicitly  believe  (how  can  one  help  it, 
written  as  it  is  ?),  the  posthumous  miracles  of  Louis  did 
not  wait  for  Rome.  They  began  at  once.  "On  that 
day  that  S.  Louis  was  buried,"  we  there  read,  "  a  woman 
of  the  diocese  of  Sens  recovered  her  sight,  which  she  had 
lost  and  saw  nothing,  by  the  merits  and  prayers  of  the 
said  debonair  and  meedful  king.  Not  long  after,  a 
young  child  of  Burgundy  both  dumb  and  deaf  of  kind, 
coming  with  others  to  the  sepulchre  or  grave  of  the 
saint,  beseeching  him  of  help,  kneeling  as  he  saw  that  the 
others  did,  and  after  a  little  while  that  he  thus  kneeled 
with  his  ears  opened  and  heard,  and  his  tongue  redressed 
and  spake  well.  In  the  same  year  a  woman  blind  was 
led  to  the  said  sepulchre,  and  by  the  merits  of  the  saint 
recovered  her  sight.  Also  that  same  year  two  men  and 
five  woman,  beseeching  S.  Louis  of  help,  recovered  the 
use  of  going,  which  they  had  lost  by  divers  sickness  and 
languors. 

"  In  the  year  that  S.  Louis  was  put  or  written  in  the 
catalogue  of  the  holy  confessors,  many  miracles  worthy 
to  be  prized  befell  in  divers  parts  of  the  world  at  the 
invocation  of  him,  by  his  merits  and  by  his  prayers. 
Another  time  at  Evreux  a  child  fell  under  the  wheel  of 
a  water-mill.     Great  multitude  of  people  came  thither, 


60  A   WANDERER   IN  PARIS 

and  supposing  to  have  kept  him  from  drowning,  invoked 
God,  our  Lady  and  his  saints  to  help  the  said  child,  but 
our  Lord  willing  his  saint  to  be  enhanced  among  so 
great  multitude  of  people,  was  there  heard  a  voice  say- 
ing that  the  said  child,  named  John,  should  be  vowed 
unto  S.  Louis.  He  then,  taken  out  of  the  water,  was 
by  his  mother  borne  to  the  grave  of  the  saint,  and  after 
her  prayer  done  to  S.  Louis,  her  son  began  to  sigh  and 
was  raised  on  life." 

We  leave  the  island  by  the  Pont  Sully,  first  looking 
at  the  statue  of  Barye,  the  sculptor  of  Barbizon,  many 
of  whose  best  small  bronzes  are  in  the  Louvre  (to  say 
nothing  of  the  shops  of  the  dealers  in  the  Rue  Laffitte) 
and  several  of  his  large  groups  in  the  public  gardens  of 
Paris,  one,  for  example,  being  near  the  Orangery  in  the 
Tuileries.  Barye's  monument  standing  here  at  the  east 
end  of  the  He  St.  Louis  balances  Henri  IV.  at  the  west 
end  of  the  He  de  la  Cite. 

Crossing  to  the  mainland  we  ought  to  look  at  the 
old  houses  on  the  Quai  des  Celestins,  particularly  the 
old  Hotel  de  la  Valette,  now  the  College  Massillon,  into 
whose  courtyard  one  should  boldly  peep.  At  No.  32 
we  touch  very  interesting  history,  for  her,e  stood,  two 
and  a  half  centuries  ago,  Moliere's  Illustre  Theatre, 
the  stage  entrance  to  which  may  be  seen  at  15  Rue  de 
l'Ave  Marie. 

And  now  for  the  Marais. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE    MARAIS 

A  £32,000,000  Rebuilding  Scheme  —  Romance  and  Intrigue  —  The 
Temple  —  The  Archives —  Illustrious  Handwriting  —  The  "Uncle" 
of  Paris  —  The  Wall  of  Philip  Augustus  —  Old  Palaces  now 
Rookeries  —  The  Carnavalet  —  The  Perfect  Museum  —  Latude  — 
Napoleon  —  Madame  de  Sevigne  —  Chained  Streets  —  John  Law  — 
The  Rue  St.  Martin. 

THE  Marais  is  that  district  of  old  streets  and  palaces 
which  is  bounded  on  the  south  by  the  Rue  St. 
Antoine,  on  the  east  by  the  Rue  du  Turenne,  on  the 
west  by  the  Rue  du  Temple,  and  fades  away  in  the 
north  somewhere  below  the  Rue  de  Bretagne.  The 
Rue  des  Francs  Bourgeois  is  its  central  highway  east 
and  west. 

It  was  my  original  intention  to  devote  a  large  propor- 
tion of  this  book  to  this  fascinating  area  —  to  describe 
it  minutely  street  by  street  —  and  I  have  notes  for  that 
purpose  which  would  fill  half  the  volume  alone.  But 
the  publication  of  the  £32,000,000  scheme  for  renovat- 
ing this  and  other  of  the  older  parts  of  Pairs  (one  of 
the  principal  points  in  which  is  the  isolation  of  the 
Musee  Carnavalet,  which  is  the  heart  of  the  Marais), 
coming  just  at  that  time,  acted  like  a  douche  of  iced 

61 


62  A   WANDERER   IN  PARIS 

water,  and  I  abandoned  the  project.  Instead  therefore 
I  merely  say  enough  (I  hope)  to  impress  on  every  reader 
the  desirability,  the  necessity  of  hastening  to  the  Rue 
des  Francs  Bourgeois  and  its  dependencies,  and  refer 
them  to  the  two  French  writers  whom  I  have  found 
most  useful  in  my  own  researches  —  the  Marquis  de 
Rochegude,  author  of  a  Guide  Pratique  a  travers  le 
Vieux  Paris  (Hachette)  and  the  Vicomte  de  Villebresme, 
author  of  Ce  que  reste  du  Vieux  Paris  (Flammarion). 
To  these  I  would  add  M.  Georges  Cain,  the  director  of 
the  Carnavalet,  to  whom  I  refer  later. 

No  matter  where  one  enters  the  Marais,  it  offers  the 
same  alluring  prospect  of  narrow  streets  and  high  and 
ancient  houses,  once  the  abode  of  the  nobility  and 
aristocracy,  but  now  rookeries  and  factories  —  and,  over 
all,  that  sense  of  thorough  insanitation  which  so  often 
accompanies  architectural  charm  in  France  and  Italy 
and  which  seems  to  matter  so  little  to  Latin  people. 
Hence  the  additional  wickedness  of  destroying  this 
district.  The  Municipality,  however,  having  acquired 
superfine  foreign  notions  as  to  public  health,  will  doubt- 
less have  its  way. 

Wherever  one  enters  the  Marais  one  finds  the  traces 
of  splendour,  intrigue  and  romance ;  howsoever  modern 
conditions  may  have  robbed  them  of  their  glory,  to  walk 
in  these  streets  is,  for  anyone  with  any  imagination,  to 
re-create  Dumas.  For  the  most  part  one  must  make 
one's  own  researches,  but  here  and  there  a  tablet  may 
be  found,  such  as  that  over  the  entrance  to  a  narrow 


SYMMETRY  63 

and  sinister  passage  at  No.  38  Hue  des  Francs  Bourgeois, 
which  reads  thus :  "  Dans  ce  passage  en  sortant  de 
l'hotel  Barbette  Ie  Due  Louis  d'Orleans  frere  du  Roi 
Charles  VI.  fut  assassine  par  Jean  Sans  Peur,  Due  de 
Bourgogne,  dans  le  nuit  du  23  ou  24  Novembre,  1407." 
Five  hundred  years  ago !  That  gives  an  idea  of  the 
antiseptic  properties  of  the  air  of  Paris.  The  Duke 
of  Orleans,  I  might  remark  here,  was  symmetrically 
avenged,  for  his  son  assassinated  Jean  Sans  Peur  on  the 
bridge  of  Montereau  all  in  due  course. 

The  Marais  was  at  its  prime  from  the  middle  of  the 
fifteenth  century  to  the  beginning  of  the  eighteenth; 
at  which  period  the  Faubourg  St.  Antoine  was  aban- 
doned by  fashion  for  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain,  as  we 
shall  see  when  the  time  comes  to  wander  in  the  Rue  de 
Varenne  and  the  Rue  de  Grenelle  on  the  other  side  of 
the  river. 

Let  us  enter  the  Marais  by  the  Rue  du  Temple  at 
the  Square  du  Temple,  a  little  south  of  the  Place  de  la 
Republique.  One  must  make  a  beginning  somewhere. 
The  Temple,  which  has  now  disappeared,  was  the  head- 
quarters of  the  Knight  Templars  of  France  before  their 
suppression  in  1307:  it  then  became  the  property  of 
the  Order  of  St.  John  of  Jerusalem,  who  held  it  until 
the  Revolution,  when  all  property  seems  to  have  changed 
hands.  Rousseau  found  sanctuary  here  in  1765 ;  and 
here  Louis  XVII.  and  Marie.  Antoinette  were  imprisoned 
for  a  while  in  1792.  More  tragic  by  far,  it  was  here 
that  the  little  Dauphin  died.     Napoleon  pulled  down 


64  A   WANDERER   IN   PARIS 

the  Tower:  Louis  XVIII.  on  his  accession  awarded  the 
property  to  the  Princess  de  Conde,  and  Louis-Philippe, 
on  his,  took  it  back  again. 

The  Rue  du  Temple  has  many  interesting  old  houses 
and  associations.  Just  north  of  the  Square  is  the 
church  of  Elizabeth  of  Hungary,  the  first  stone  of 
which  was  laid  in  1628  by  a  less  sainted  monarch, 
Marie  de  Medicis.  It  is  worth  entering  to  see  its 
carved  wood  scenes  from  Scripture  history.  At  193 
once  lived  Madame  du  Barry;  at  153  was,  in  the  reign 
of  Louis  XV.,  the  barreau  des  vinaigrettes  —  the  vinai- 
grette being  the  forerunner  of  the  cab,  a  kind  of  sedan 
chair  and  jinrickshaw ;  at  62  died  Anne  de  Montmorency, 
Constable  of  France,  in  the  Hotel  de  Montmorency. 

From  the  Square  du  Temple  we  may  also  walk  down 
the  Rue  des  Archives,  parallel  with  the  Rue  du  Temple 
on  the  east.  This  street  now  extends  to  the  Rue  de 
Rivoli.  It  is  rich  in  old  palaces,  some  with  very  beauti- 
ful relics  of  their  grandeur  still  in  existence,  such  as  the 
staircase  at  No.  78.  The  fountain  at  the  corner  of  the 
Rue  des  Haudriettes  dates  only  from  1705.  At  No. 
58  is  the  gateway,  restored,  of  the  old  palace  of  the 
Constable  de  Clisson,  built  in  1371.  Later  it  belonged 
to  the  de  Guise  family  and  then  to  the  de  Soubise. 
The  Revolution  made  it  the  property  of  the  State,  and 
Napoleon  directed  that  the  Archives  should  be  pre- 
served here.  The  entrance  is  in  the  Rue  des  Francs 
Bourgeois,  across  the  green  court;  but  do  not  go  on  a 
cold  day,  because  there  is  no  heating  process,  owing  to 


L'HOMME  AU  GA\T 

TITIAN 

{Louvre) 


MOMENTOUS   DOCUMENTS  65 

the  age  of  the  building  and  the  extraordinary  value  of 
the  collections.  The  rooms  in  themselves  are  of  some 
interest  for  their  Louis  XV.  decoration  and  mural 
paintings,  but  one  goes  of  course  primarily  to  see  the 
handwriting  of  the  great.  Here  is  the  Edict  of  Nantes 
signed  by  Henri  IV. ;  a  quittance  signed  by  Diana 
de  Poictiers,  very  boldly;  a  letter  to  Parliament  from 
Louis  XI.,  in  his  atrocious  hand;  a  codicil  added  by 
Saint  Louis  to  his  will  on  board  a  vessel  on  the  coast 
of  Sardinia,  exquisitely  written.  The  scriveners  have 
rather  gone  off  than  improved  since  those  days ;  look  at 
the  "Registre  des  Enquetions  royaux  en  Normande," 
1248,  for  work  of  delicate  minuteness.  Marie 
Therese,  wife  of  Louis  XIV.,  wrote  an  attractive  hand, 
but  Louis  XIV.'s  own  signature  is  dull.  Voltaire  is 
discovered  to  have  written  very  like  Swinburne. 

Relics  of  the  Revolution  abound.  Here  is  Marie 
Antoinette's  last  letter  to  the  Princess  Elizabeth, 
written  the  night  before  she  was  executed;  a  letter 
of  Petion,  bidding  his  wife  farewell,  and  of  Barbaroux 
to  his  mother,  both  stained  with  tears.  Here  also  is 
the  journal  of  Louis  XVI.,  1766-1792,  and  the  order 
for  his  inhumation  (as  Louis  Capet),  21st  January,  1793. 
His  will  is  here  too;  and  so  is  Napoleon's.  I  say  no 
more  because  the  collection  is  so  vast,  and  also  because 
a  franc  buys  a  most  admirable  catalogue,  with  fac- 
similes, beginning  with  the  monogram  of  Charlemagne 
himself. 

On  leaving  the  Archives  we  may  take  an  easterly 


66  A   WANDERER   IN  PARIS 

course  along  the  Rue  des  Francs  Bourgeois,  with  the 
idea  of  making  eventually  for  the  Carnavalet ;  but  it  is 
well  to  loiter,  for  this  is  the  very  heart  of  the  Marais. 
One's  feet  will  always  be  straying  down  byways  that 
call  for  closer  notice,  and  it  is  very  likely  that  the 
Carnavalet  will  not  be  reached  till  to-morrow  after  all. 
Indeed,  let  "  Hasta  mafiana  "  be  your  Marais  motto. 

One  of  the  first  buildings  that  one  notices  is  the 
Mont  de  Piete,  the  chief  of  the  Paris  pawnbroking 
establishments.  I  am  told  that  the  system  is  an  ad- 
mirable one;  but  my  own  experience  is  against  this 
opinion,  for  I  was  unable  on  a  day  of  unexpected  stress 
at  the  end  of  1907  to  effect  an  entrance  at  the  very 
reasonable  hour  of  a  quarter  past  five.  The  closing  of 
the  English  pawnbrokers  at  seven  —  the  very  moment 
at  which  the  ordinary  man's  financial  troubles  begin  — 
is  sufficiently  uncivilised ;  but  to  cease  to  lend  money 
on  excellent  gold  watches  at  five  o'clock  in  the  after- 
noon (with  the  bank  closed  on  the  morrow,  too,  being 
New  Year's  Day)  is  a  scandal.  My  adventures  in 
search  of  relief  among:  French  tradesmen  who  had  been 
at  my  feet  as  recently  as  yesterday,  before  supplies  had 
broken  down,  I  shall  never  forget,  nor  shall  I  relate 
them  here.     This  aims  at  being  an  agreeable  book. 

It  is  interesting  to  note  that  one  of  the  entrances  to 
the  Mont  de  Piete  is  reserved  for  clients  who  wish  to 
raise  money  on  deeds,  and  I  have  seen  cabmen  very  busy 
in  bringing  to  it  people  who  quite  shamelessly  hold  their 
papers  in  their  hands.     And  why  on  earth  not?     And 


OLD   PARIS  67 

yet  your  English  pawner  seldom  reaches  the  Three 
Brass  Balls  with  such  publicity  or  by  any  other  medium 
than  his  poor  feet.  Our  Mont  de  Piete  for  the  respect- 
able is  the  solicitor's  office.  A  trace  of  the  wall,  and  one 
of  its  towers,  built  around  Paris  by  Philip  Augustus 
in  the  twelfth  and  thirteenth  centuries,  may  be  seen  in 
the  courtyard  of  the  Mont  de  Piete;  but  the  wall  is 
better  observed  in  the  Rue  des  Guillemites,  at  No.  14. 

All  about  here  once  stood  a  large  convent  of  the 
Blancs-Manteaux,  or  Servants  of  the  Virgin  Mary, 
an  order  which  came  into  being  in  Florence  in  the 
thirteenth  century  and  of  whom  the  doctor  Benazzi 
was  the  general.  After  the  Blancs-Manteaux  came 
the  Hermits  of  St.  Guillaume,  or  Guillemites,  and 
later  the  Benedictines  took  it  over.  Next  the  Mont  de 
Piete  at  the  back  is  the  church  of  the  Blancs-Manteaux 
in  its  modern  form.  It  is  plain  and  unattractive,  but 
it  wears  an  air  of  some  purpose,  and  one  feels  that  it 
is  much  used  in  this  very  popular  and  not  too  happy 
quarter.  Just  opposite,  in  a  doorway,  I  watched  an 
old  chiffonniere  playing  with  a  grey  rabbit.  Every  inch 
of  this  neighbourhood  offers  priceless  material  to  the 
hand  of  Mr.  Muirhead  Bone. 

One  of  the  old  tavern  signs  of  Paris  is  to  be  seen 
close  by,  at  the  corner  of  the  Rue  des  Blancs-Manteaux 
and  the  Rue  des  Archives:  a  soldier  standing  by  a 
cannon,  representing  l'homme  arme.  It  is  a  comfort- 
able little  retreat  and  should  be  encouraged  for  such 
antiquarian  piety. 


68  A  WANDERER  IN  PARIS 

The  pretty  turret  at  the  corner  of  the  Rue  des 
Francs  Bourgeois  and  the  Rue  Vieille  du  Temple 
marks  the  site  of  the  hotel  of  Jean  de  la  Baule.  Turn- 
ing to  the  left  up  the  Rue  Vieille  du  Temple  we  come 
at  No.  87  to  a  very  beautiful  ancient  mansion,  with  a 
spacious  courtyard,  built  in  1712  for  the  Cardinal  de 
Rohan.  It  is  now  the  national  printing  works :  hence 
the  statue  of  Gutenburg  in  the  midst.  Visitors  are 
allowed  to  see  the  house  itself  once  a  week,  but  I  have 
not  done  so.  You  will  probably  not  be  interfered  with 
if  you  just  step  to  the  inside  of  the  second  courtyard  to 
see  the  bas-relief  of  the  steeds  of  Apollo.  Nos.  102  to 
108  in  the  same  street  mark  the  remains  of  another 
fine  eighteenth-century  hotel.  There  is  also  a  house 
which  one  should  see  in  the  lower  part  of  the  street, 
on  the  south  side  of  the  Francs  Bourgeois  —  No.  47, 
where  by  penetrating  boldly  one  comes  to  a  perfect 
little  courtyard  with  some  beautiful  carvings  in  it,  and, 
above,  a  green  garden,  tended,  when  I  was  there,  by  a 
Little  Sister  of  the  Poor.  The  principal  courtyard  has 
a  very  interesting  bas-relief  of  Romulus  and  Remus  at 
their  usual  meal,  and  also  an  old  sundial.  This  palace 
was  built  in  1638. 

Returning  to  the  Rue  des  Francs  Bourgeois,  we  find 
at  No.  38  the  little  impasse  already  referred  to,  where 
the  Due  d'Orleans  was  assassinated.  At  No.  30  is  a 
very  impressive  red-brick  palace  with  a  courtyard,  now 
a  nest  of  offices  and  factories,  once  the  hotel  of  Jean  de 
Fourcy.     A  bust  of  Henri  IV.  has  a  place  there.     At 


STREETS  IN  THE   MAKING  C9 

No.  25  on  the  other  side  (seen  better  from  the  Rue 
Pavee)  is  an  even  more  splendid  abode  —  now  also  cut 
up  into  a  rookery  —  the  Hotel  de  Lamoignon,  once 
Hotel  d'AngouIeme,  built  for  Diane,  Duchess  of  An- 
gouleme,  daughter  of  Henri  II. :  hence  the  symbols  of 
the  chase  in  the  ornamentation.  The  hotel  passed  to 
President  de  Lamoignon  in  1655. 

And  here  is  the  Carnavalet  —  the  spacious  building, 
with  a  garden  and  modern  additions,  on  the  left  —  once 
the  Hotel  des  Ligneries,  afterwards  the  Hotel  de  Ker- 
nevenoy,  afterwards  the  Hotel  de  Sevigne,  and  now  the 
museum  of  the  city  of  Paris.  The  only  way  to  under- 
stand Paris  is  to  make  repeated  visits  to  this  treasure- 
house.  You  will  find  new  entertainment  and  instruction 
every  time,  because  every  time  you  will  carry  thither 
impressions  of  new  objects  of  interest  whose  past  you 
will  want  to  explore.  For  in  the  Carnavalet  every 
phase  of  the  life  of  the  city,  from  the  days  of  the 
Romans  and  the  Merovingians  to  our  own,  is  illustrated 
in  one  way  or  another.  The  pictures  of  streets  alone 
are  inexhaustible:  the  streets  that  one  knows  to-day 
as  they  were  yesterday  and  the  day  before  yesterday 
and  hundreds  of  years  ago;  the  streets  one  has  just 
walked  through  on  the  way  here,  in  their  stages  of 
evolution:  such,  for  example,  as  the  picture  of  the 
wooden  Pont  des  Meuniers  in  1380  with  the  Tour  Saint- 
Jacques  behind  it;  the  streets  with  dramas  of  the 
Revolution  in  progress,  such  as  the  picture  of  the  em- 
blems of    Royalty  being   burned  before    the  statue  of 


70  A  WANDERER  IN   PARIS 

Liberty  (where  the  Luxor  column  now  stands)  in  the 
Place  de  la  Concorde  on  August  10th,  1793;  such  as 
the  picture  of  the  famous  sermon  being  preached  in 
the  course  of  the  Jeu  de  Paume  on  June  20th,  1789; 
such  as  the  picture  of  the  funeral  of  Marat.  For  the 
perfection  of  topographical  drawing  look  at  the  series 
by  F.  Hoffbauer.  But  it  is  impossible  and  needless 
to  particularise.  The  visitor  with  a  topographical  or 
historical  bent  will  find  himself  in  a  paradise  and  will 
return  and  return.     One  visit  is  ridiculous. 

The  catalogue,  I  may  say,  is  not  good,  therein  falling 
into  line  with  the  sculpture  catalogue  at  the  Louvre. 
Everything  may  be  in  it,  but  the  arrangement  is  poor. 
In  such  a  museum  every  article  and  every  picture  should 
of  course  have  a  description  attached,  if  only  for  the 
benefit  of  the  poor  visitor,  the  humblest  citizen  of  Paris 
whose  museum  it  is. 

There  are  a  few  works  of  art  here  too,  as  well  as 
topographical  drawings.  Georges  Michel,  for  example, 
who  looked  on  landscape  much  as  Meryon  looked  on 
architecture  and  preferred  a  threatening  sky  to  a  sunny 
one,  has  a  prospect  from  the  Plaine  St.  Denis.  Vollon 
paints  the  Moulin  de  la  Galette  on  Montmartre  as  it 
was  in  1865;  Troyon  spreads  out  St.  Cloud.  Here 
also  are  a  charming  portrait  by  Chardin  of  his  second 
wife;  the  well-known  picture  of  David's  Life  School; 
drawings  by  Watteau;  an  adorable  unsigned  "Mar- 
chand  de  Lingerie " ;  an  enchanting  leg  on  a  blue 
pillow  by  Boucher;   a  portrait  by  Prud'hon  of  an  un- 


PORTRAIT  DE   JEUNE   HOMME 

ATTRIBUTED   TO    BIGIO 

{Louvre) 


LATUDE  71 

known  man,  very  striking ;  and  some  exquisite  work  by 
Louis  Boilly. 

The  Musee  is  strong  in  Henri  IV.  and  the  later  Louis', 
but  it  is  of  course  in  relics  of  the  Revolution  and 
Napoleon  that  the  interest  centres.  A  casquette  of 
Liberty;  the  handle  of  Marat's  bathroom;  a  portrait 
of  "  La  Veuve  Capet "  in  the  Conciergerie,  in  the  room 
that  we  have  seen;  a  painted  life-mask  of  Voltaire, 
very  horrible,  and  the  armchair  in  which  he  died;  a 
copy  of  the  constitution  of  1793  bound  in  the  skin 
of  a  man;  Marat's  snuff-box;  Madame  Roland  as 
a  sweet  and  happy  child,  —  these  I  remember  in  par- 
ticular. 

Latude  is,  however,  the  popular  figure  —  Latude  the 
prisoner  of  the  Bastille  who  escaped  by  means  of  imple- 
ments which  he  made  secretly  and  which  are  now 
preserved  here,  near  a  portrait  of  the  enfranchised 
gentleman,  robust,  portly  and  triumphant,  pointing 
with  one  hand  to  his  late  prison  while  the  other  grasps 
the  rope  ladder.  Latude's  history  is  an  odd  one.  He 
was  born  in  1725,  the  natural  son  of  a  poor  girl :  after 
accompanying  the  army  in  Languedoc  as  a  surgeon,  or 
surgeon's  assistant,  he  reached  Paris  in  1748  and  pro- 
ceeded to  starve.  In  despair  he  hit  upon  an  ingenious 
trick,  which  wanted  nothing  but  success  to  have  made 
him.  He  prepared  an  infernal  machine  of  infinitesimal 
aptitude  —  a  contrivance  of  practically  harmless  but 
perhaps  somewhat  alarming  explosives  —  and  this  he 
sent  anonymously  to  the  Marquise  de  Pompadour,  and 


72  A  WANDERER  IN   PARIS 

then  immediately  after  waited  upon  her  in  person  at  Ver- 
sailles to  say  that  he  had  overheard  some  men  plotting 
to  destroy  her  by  means  of  this  kind  of  a  bomb,  and  he 
had  come  post-haste  to  warn  her  and  save  her  life.  It 
was  a  good  story,  but  Latude  seems  to  have  lacked  some 
necessary  gifts  as  an  impostor,  for  his  own  share  was 
detected  and  he  was  thrown  into  the  Bastille  on  the  1st 
of  May,  1749.  A  few  weeks  later  he  was  transferred  to 
the  prison  at  Vincennes,  from  which  he  escaped  in  1750. 
A  month  later  he  was  retaken  and  again  placed  in  the 
Bastille,  from  which  he  escaped  six  years  later.  He  got 
away  to  Holland,  but  was  quickly  recaptured;  and 
then  again  he  escaped,  after  nine  more  years.  He  was 
then  treated  as  a  lunatic  and  put  into  confinement  at 
Charenton,  but  was  discharged  in  1777.  His  liberty, 
however,  seems  to  have  been  of  little  use  to  him,  and 
he  rapidly  qualified  for  gaol  again  by  breaking  into  a 
house  and  threatening  its  owner,  a  woman,  with  a 
pistol,  and  he  was  imprisoned  once  more.  Altogether 
he  was  under  lock  and  key  for  the  greater  part  of 
thirty-five  years;  but  once  he  was  free  in  1784  he  kept 
his  head,  and  not  only  remained  free  but  became  a 
popular  hero,  and  did  not  a  little,  by  reason  of  a 
heightened  account  of  his  sufferings  under  despotic 
prison  rule,  to  inflame  the  revolutionaries.  These 
memoirs,  by  the  way,  in  the  preparation  of  which  he 
was  assisted  by  an  advocate  named  Thiery,  were  for  the 
most  part  untruthful,  and  not  least  so  in  those  passages 
in  which  Latude  described  his  own  innocence  and  ideals. 


"A   GREAT  LADY"  73 

Our  own  canonised  prison-breaker,  Jack  Sheppard,  was 
a  better  hero  than  this  man. 

The  little  room  devoted  to  Napoleon  is  filled  with  an 
intimate  melancholy.  Many  personal  relics  are  here 
—  even  to  a  toothbrush  dipped  in  a  red  powder.  His 
necessaires  de  campagne  so  compactly  arranged  illustrate 
the  minute  orderliness  of  his  mind,  and  the  workmanship 
of  the  travelling  cases  that  hold  them  proves  once  again 
his  thoroughness  and  taste.  Everything  had  to  be 
right.  One  of  his  maps  of  la  campagne  de  Prusse 
is  here ;   others  we  shall  see  as  the  Invalides. 

The  relics  of  Madame  de  Sevigne,  who  once  lived  in 
this  beautiful  house,  are  not  very  numerous ;  but  they 
exercise  their  spell.  Her  salon  is  very  much  as  she  left 
it,  except  that  the  private  staircase  has  disappeared  and 
a  china  closet  takes  its  place.  Within  these  walls  have 
La  Rochefoucauld  and  Bossuet  conversed ;  here  she  sat, 
pen  in  hand,  writing  her  immortal  letters.  "Lisons 
tout  Madame  de  Sevigne"  was  the  advice  of  Sainte 
Beuve,  while  her  most  illustrious  English  admirer, 
Edward  FitzGerald,  often  quotes  her.  He  came  to  her 
late,  not  till  1875,  but  she  never  loosened  her  hold.  "  I 
have  this  Summer,"  he  wrote  to  Mrs.  W.  H.  Thompson, 
"made  the  Acquaintance  of  a  great  Lady,  with  whom 
I  have  become  perfectly  intimate,  through  her  Letters, 
Madame  de  Sevigne.  I  had  hitherto  kept  aloof  from 
her,  because  of  that  eternal  Daughter  of  hers ;  but '  it's 
all  Truth  and  Daylight,'  as  Kitty  Clive  said  of  Mrs. 
Siddons.     Her  Letters  from  Brittany  are  best  of  all,  not 


74  A  WANDERER  IN  PARIS 

those  from  Paris,  for  she  loved  the  Country,  dear 
Creature ;  and  now  I  want  to  go  and  visit  her '  Rochers,' 
but  never  shall."  "I  sometimes  lament,"  he  says  (to 
Mrs.  Cowell),  "  I  did  not  know  her  before ;  but  perhaps 
such  an  acquaintance  comes  in  best  to  cheer  one  toward 
the  end."  With  these  pleasant  praises  in  our  ears  let 
us  leave  the  Carnavalet. 

The  Rue  de  Sevigne  itself  has  many  interesting  houses, 
notably  on  the  south  side  of  the  Rue  des  Francs  Bour- 
geois; No.  11,  for  example,  was  once  a  theatre,  built  by 
Beaumarchais  in  1790.  That  is  nothing;  the  interest- 
ing thing  is  that  he  built  it  of  material  from  the  de- 
stroyed Bastille  and  the  destroyed  church  of  St.  Paul. 
The  fire  station  close  by  was  once  the  Hotel  de  Perron 
de  Quincy.  It  was  in  this  street,  on  the  day  of  the  Fete 
Dieu  in  1392,that  the  Constable  de  Clisson,  whose  house 
we  saw  in  the  Rue  des  Archives,  was  attacked  by  Pierre 
de  Craon. 

The  Rue  des  Francs  Bourgeois  is  the  highway  of  the 
Marais,  and  the  Carnavalet  is  its  greatest  possession; 
but,  as  I  have  said,  the  Marais  is  inexhaustible  in  archi- 
tectural and  historical  riches.  We  may  work  our  way 
through  it,  back  to  the  Rue  du  Temple  by  any  of  these 
ancient  streets;  all  will  repay.  The  Rue  du  Temple 
sxtends  to  the  Rue  de  Rivoli,  striking  it  just  by  the 
Hotel  de  Ville,  but  the  lower  portion,  south  of  the  Rue 
Rambuteau,  is  not  so  interesting  as  the  upper.  There 
is,  however,  to  the  west  of  it,  just  north  of  the  Rue  de 
Rivoli,  a  system  of  old  streets  hardly  less  picturesque 


the  arc  dp:  TRIOMPHE  DE  L'ETOILE 

(APPROACHING    FROM    THE    AVENUE    DU    BOIS  DE    BOULOGNE) 


ST.    MERRY  75 

(and  sometimes  even  more  so)  than  the  Marais  proper, 
in  the  centre  of  which  is  the  church  of  St.  Merry,  with 
one  of  the  most  wonderful  west  fronts  anywhere  —  a 
mass  of  rich  and  eccentric  decoration.  The  Saint  him- 
self was  Abbot  of  Autun.  He  came  to  Paris  in  the 
seventh  century  to  visit  the  shrines  of  St.  Denis  and  St. 
Germain.  At  that  time  the  district  which  we  are  now 
traversing  was  chiefly  forest,  in  which  the  kings  of 
France  would  hunt,  leaving  their  palace  in  the  He  de  la 
Cite  and  crossing  the  river  to  this  wild  district  —  wild 
though  so  near.  St.  Merry  established  himself  in  his 
simple  way  near  a  little  chapel  in  the  woods,  dedicated 
to  St.  Peter,  that  stood  on  this  spot,  and  there  he  died. 
After  his  death  his  tomb  in  the  chapel  performed  such 
miracles  that  St.  Peter  was  forgotten  and  St.  Merry  was 
exalted,  and  when  the  time  came  to  rebuild,  St.  Merry 
ousted  St.  Peter  altogether. 

St.  Merry's  florid  west  front  is  in  the  Rue  St.  Martin, 
once  the  Roman  road  from  Paris  to  the  north  and  to 
England,  and  by  the  Rue  St.  Martin  we  may  leave  this 
district;  but  between  it  and  the  Rue  du  Temple  there 
is  much  to  see  —  such  as,  for  example,  the  Rue  Verrerie, 
south  of  St.  Merry's,  the  head-quarters  of  the  ancient 
glassworkers ;  the  Rue  Brisemiche,  quite  one  of  the  best 
of  the  old  narrow  Paris  streets,  with  iron  staples  and 
hooks  still  in  the  walls  at  Nos.  20,  23,  26  and  29,  to 
which  chains  could  be  fastened  so  as  to  turn  a  street  into 
an  impasse  during  times  of  stress  and  thus  be  sure  of 
your  man ;  the  Rue  Taillepin,  also  leading  out  of  the  Rue 


76  A  WANDERER  IN   PARIS 

du  Cloitre  St.  Merry  into  the  Rue  St.  Merry,  which  has 
some  fine  old  houses  of  its  own,  notably  No.  36  and  the 
quaint  Impasse  du  Boeuf  at  No.  10. 

Parallel  with  the  Rue  St.  Merry  farther  north  is 
the  Rue  de  Venise,  which  the  Vicomte  de  Villebresme 
boldly  calls  the  most  picturesque  in  old  Paris.  Now  a 
very  low  quarter,  it  was  once  literally  the  Lombard 
Street  of  Paris,  the  chief  abode  of  Lombardy  money- 
lenders, while  the  long  and  beautiful  Rue  Quincampoix, 
into  which  it  runs  on  the  west,  was  also  a  financial 
centre,  containing  no  less  an  establishment  than  the 
famous  Banque  of  John  Law,  the  Scotchman  who  for 
a  while  early  in  the  eighteenth  century  controlled  French 
finance.  When  Law  had  matured  his  Mississippi 
scheme,  he  made  the  Rue  Quincampoix  his  head- 
quarters, and  houses  in  it,  we  read,  that  had  been  let  for 
£40  a  year  now  yielded  £800  a  month.  In  the  winter  of 
1719-20  Paris  was  filled  with  speculators  besieging  Law's 
offices  for  shares.  But  by  May  the  crash  had  come  and 
Law  had  to  fly.  Many  a  house  in  the  Rue  Quincampoix, 
which  is  now  sufficiently  innocent  of  high  finance,  dates 
from  the  fifteenth  and  sixteenth  centuries.  There  is  a 
fine  doorway  at  No.  34. 

We  may  regain  the  Rue  St.  Martin,  just  to  the  east, 
by  the  Rue  des  Lombards,  which  brings  us  to  the  flam- 
boyant front  of  St.  Merry's  once  more.  The  Rue  St. 
Martin,  which  confesses  its  Roman  origin  in  its  straight- 
ness,  is  still  busy  with  traffic,  but  neither  itself  nor  the 
Rue  St.  Denis,  two  or  three  hundred  yards  to  the  west, 


NEW  STREETS  FOR  OLD  77 

is  one-tenth  as  busy  as  it  was  before  the  Boulevard 
Sebastopol  was  cut  between  them  to  do  all  the  real  work. 
It  is  a  fine  thoroughfare  and  no  doubt  of  the  highest 
use,  but  what  beautiful  narrow  streets  of  old  houses  it 
must  have  destroyed  !  We  may  note  in  the  Rue  St. 
Martin  the  pretty  fountain  at  No.  122,  and  the  curious 
old  house  at  No.  164,  and  leave  it  at  the  church  of  St. 
Nicholas-des-Champs,  no  longer  in  the  fields  any  more 
than  London's  St.  Martin's  is. 

And   now  after  so  many  houses    let  us  see  some 
pictures ! 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  LOUVRE:     I.  THE  OLD  MASTERS 

The  Winged  Victory  of  Samothrace  —  Botticelli's  Fresco  —  Luini  — 
Ingres  —  The  Salon  Carre  —  La  Joconde  —  Leonardo  da  Vinci  — 
Pater,  Lowell  and  Vasari  —  Early  Collectors  —  Paul  Veronese  — 
Copyists  —  The  Salle  des  Primitifs  —  The  Grand  Galerie  — 
Landor's  Pictorial  Creed  —  The  Great  Schools  —  Rembrandt  — 
Van  Dyck  and  Rubens  —  Amazing  Abundance  —  The  Dutch 
Masters  —  The  Drawings. 

IT  is  on  the  first  landing  of  the  Escalier  Daru,  at  the 
end  of  the  Galerie  Denon,  that  one  of  the  most 
priceless  treasures  of  the  Louvre  —  one  of  the  most 
splendid  things  in  the  world  —  is  to  be  found :  it  has 
been  before  us  all  the  way  along  the  Galerie  Denon, 
that  avenue  of  noble  bronzes,  the  first  thing  that  caught 
the  eye:  I  mean  the  "Winged  Victory  of  Samothrace." 
Every  one  has  seen  photographs  or  models  of  this 
majestic  and  exquisite  figure,  but  it  must  be  studied 
here  if  one  is  to  form  a  true  estimate  of  the  magical 
mastery  of  the  sculptor.  The  Victory  is  headless  and 
armless  and  much  mutilated ;  but  that  matters  little. 
She  stands  on  the  prow  of  the  trireme,  and  for  everyone 
who  sees  her  with  any  imagination  must  for  all  time 
be  the  symbol  of  triumphant  and  splendid  onset.     The 

78 


BOTTICELLI  79 

figure  no  doubt  weighs  more  than  a  ton  —  and  is  as  light 
as  air.  The  "  Meteor  "  in  a  strong  breeze  with  all  her 
sails  set  and  her  prow  foaming  through  the  waves  does 
not  convey  a  more  exciting  idea  of  commanding  and 
buoyant  progress.  But  that  comparison  wholly  omits 
the  element  of  conquest  —  for  this  is  essential  Victory  as 
well. 

The  statue  dates  from  the  fourth  century  B.C.  It 
was  not  discovered  until  1863,  in  Samothrace.  Paris  is 
fortunate  indeed  to  possess  not  only  the  Venus  of  Milo 
but  this  wonder  of  art  —  both  in  the  same  building. 

Before  entering  the  picture  galleries  proper,  let  us 
look  at  two  other  exceedingly  beautiful  things  also  on 
this  staircase  —  the  two  frescoes  from  the  Villa  Lemmi, 
but  particularly  No.  1297  on  the  left  of  the  entrance 
to  Gallery  XVI.,  which  represents  Giovanna  Tornabuoni 
and  the  Three  Graces  and  is  by  Sandro  Filipepi,  whom 
we  call  Botticelli.  For  this  exquisite  work  alone  would 
I  willingly  cross  the  Channel  even  in  a  gale,  such  is  its 
charm.  A  reproduction  of  it  will  be  found  opposite 
page  6,  but  it  gives  no  impression  of  the  soft  delicacy 
of  colouring:  its  gentle  pinks  and  greens  and  purples, 
its  kindly  reds  and  chestnut  browns.  One  should  make 
a  point  of  looking  at  these  frescoes  whenever  one  is  on 
the  staircase,  which  will  be  often. 

The  ordinary  entrance  to  the  picture  galleries  of  the 
Louvre  is  through  the  photographic  vestibule  on  the 
right  of  the  Winged  Victory  as  you  face  it,  leading  to 
the  Salle  Duchatel,  notable  for  such  differing  works  as 


80  A   WANDERER   IN   PARIS 

frescoes  by  Luini  and  two  pictures  by  Ingres  —  repre- 
senting the  beginning  and  end  of  his  long  and  austere 
career.  The  Luinis  are  delightful  —  very  gay  and,  as 
always  with  this  tender  master,  sweet  —  especially  "  The 
Nativity,"  which  is  reproduced  opposite  page  16.  The 
Ingres'  (which  were  bequeathed  by  the  Comtesse  Ducha- 
tel  after  whom  the  room  is  named)  are  the  "  (Edipus  solv- 
ing the  riddle  of  the  Sphinx,"  dated  1808,  when  the 
painter  was  twenty-eight,  and  the  "Spring,"  which 
some  consider  his  masterpiece,  painted  in  1856.  He 
lived  to  be  eighty-six.  English  people  have  so  few 
opportunities  of  seeing  the  work  of  this  master  (we  have 
in  oils  only  a  little  doubtful  portrait  of  Malibran, 
very  recently  acquired,  which  hangs  in  the  National 
Gallery)  that  he  comes  as  a  totally  new  craftsman  to 
most  of  us;  and  his  severity  may  not  always  please. 
But  as  a  draughtsman  he  almost  takes  the  breath 
away,  and  no  one  should  miss  the  pencil  heads,  par- 
ticularly a  little  saucy  lady,  from  his  hand  in  the  His 
de  la  Salle  collection  of  drawings  in  another  part  of  the 
Louvre. 

In  the  Salle  Duchatel  is  also  a  screen  of  drawings 
with  a  very  beautiful  head  by  Botticelli  in  it  —  No.  48. 
From  the  rooms  we  then  pass  to  the  Salon  Carre  (so 
called  because  it  is  square,  and  not,  as  I  heard  one 
American  explaining  to  another,  after  the  celebrated 
collector  Carre  who  had  left  these  pictures  to  the  nation), 
and  this  is,  I  suppose,  for  its  size,  the  most  valuable 
gallery  in  the  world.     It  is  doubtful  if  any  other  com- 


THE  WINGED  VICTORY  OF  SAMOTHRACE 
{Louvre) 


LEONARDO  81 

bination  of  collections,  each  contributing  of  its  choicest, 
could  compile  as  remarkable  a  room,  for  the  "  Monna 
Lisa,"  or  "  La  Joconde,"  Leonardo  da  Vinci's  portrait  of 
the  wife  of  his  friend  Francesco  del  Giocondo,  which  is 
its  greatest  glory  and  perhaps  the  greatest  glory  of  all 
Paris  too,  would  necessarily  be  missing. 

Paris  without  this  picture  would  not  be  the  Paris 
that  we  know,  or  the  Paris  that  has  been  since  1793 
when  "La  Joconde"  first  became  the  nation's  property 
—  ever  more  to  smile  her  inscrutable  smile  and  exert  her 
quiet  mysterious  sway,  not  only  for  kings  and  courtiers 
but  for  all.  When  all  is  said,  it  is  Leonardo  who  gives 
the  Louvre  its  special  distinction  as  a  picture  gallery. 
Without  him  it  would  still  be  magnificent:  with  him 
it  is  priceless  and  sublime.  For  not  only  are  there  the 
"  Monna  Lisa  "  and  (also  in  the  Salon  Carre)  the  sweet 
and  beautiful  "Madonna  and  Saint  Anne,"  but  in  the 
next,  the  Grande  Galerie,  are  his  "  Virgin  of  the  Rocks," 
a  variant  of  the  only  Leonardo  in  our  National  Gallery, 
and  the  "  Bacchus  "  (so  like  the  "  John  the  Baptist ")  and 
the  "  John  the  Baptist "  (  so  like  the  "  Bacchus  ")  and  the 
portrait  of  the  demure  yet  mischievous  Italian  lady  who 
is  supposed  to  be  Lucrezia  Crivelli  and  who  (in  spite  of 
the  yellowing  ravages  of  time)  once  seen  is  never  for- 
gotten. 

The    Louvre    has    all    these    (together  with    many 

drawings),  but  above  all  it  has  the  Monna  Lisa,  of  which 

what  shall  I  say  ?     I  feel  that  I  can  say  nothing.     But 

here  are  two  descriptions  of  the  picture,  or  rather  two 

a 


82  A   WANDERER  IN  PARIS 

descriptions  of  the  emotions  produced  by  the  picture 
on  two  very  different  minds.  These  I  may  quote  as 
expressing,  between  them,  all.  I  will  begin  with  that 
of  Walter  Pater :  "  As  we  have  seen  him  using  incidents 
of  sacred  story,  not  for  their  own  sake,  or  as  mere  sub- 
jects for  pictorial  realisation,  but  as  a  cryptic  language 
for  fancies  all  his  own,  so  now  he  found  a  vent  for  his 
thought  in  taking  one  of  these  languid  women,  and  rais- 
ing her,  as  Leda  or  Pomona,  as  Modesty  or  Vanity,  to 
the  seventh  heaven  of  symbolical  expression. 

"La  Gioconda  is,  in  the  truest  sense,  Leonardo's 
masterpiece,  the  revealing  instance  of  his  mode  of 
thought  and  work.  In  suggestiveness,  only  the  Melan- 
cholia of  Diirer  is  comparable  to  it;  and  no  crude 
symbolism  disturbs  the  effect  of  its  subdued  and  grace- 
ful mystery.  We  all  know  the  face  and  hands  of  the 
figure,  set  in  its  marble  chair,  in  that  circle  of  fantastic 
rocks,  as  in  some  faint  light  under  sea.  Perhaps  of  all 
ancient  pictures  time  has  chilled  it  least.1  As  often 
happens  with  works  in  which  invention  seems  to  reach 
its  limit,  there  is  an  element  in  it  given  to,  not  invented 
by,  the  master.  In  that  inestimable  folio  of  drawings, 
once  in  the  possession  of  Vasari,  were  certain  designs  by 
Verrocchio,  faces  of  such  impressive  beauty  that  Leo- 
nardo in  his  boyhood  copied  them  many  times.  It  is 
hard  not  to  connect  with  these  designs  of  the  elder,  by- 
past  master,  as  with  its  germinal  principle,  the  unfathom- 

1  Yet  for  Vasari  there  was  further  magic  of  crimson  in  the  lips  and 
cheeks,  lost  for  us.     Pater's  note. 


A   PAGE   OF  PATER  83 

able  smile,  always  with  a  touch  of  something  sinister  on 
it,  which  plays  over  all  Leonardo's  work.  Besides,  the 
picture  is  a  portrait.  From  childhood  we  see  this  image 
defining  itself  on  the  fabric  of  his  dreams ;  and  but  for 
express  historical  testimony,  we  might  fancy  that  this 
was  but  his  ideal  lady,  embodied  and  beheld  at  last. 
What  was  the  relationship  of  a  living  Florentine  to  this 
creature  of  his  thought  ?  By  what  strange  affinities 
had  the  dream  and  the  person  grown  up  thus  apart, 
and  yet  so  closely  together?  Present  from  the  first 
incorporeally  in  Leonardo's  brain,  dimly  traced  in  the 
designs  of  Verrocchio,  she  is  found  present  at  last  in  // 
Giocondo's  house.  That  there  is  much  of  mere  por- 
traiture in  the  picture  is  attested  by  the  legend  that 
by  artificial  means,  the  presence  of  mimes  and  flute- 
players,  that  subtle  expression  was  protracted  on  the 
face.  Again,  was  it  in  four  years  and  by  renewed  labour 
never  really  completed,  or  in  four  months  and  as  by 
stroke  of  magic,  that  the  image  was  projected  ? 

"  The  presence  that  rose  thus  so  strangely  beside  the 
waters,  is  expressive  of  what  in  the  ways  of  a  thousand 
years  men  had  come  to  desire.  Hers  is  the  head  upon 
which  all  'the  ends  of  the  world  are  come,'  and  the 
eyelids  are  a  little  weary.  It  is  a  beauty  wrought  out 
from  within  upon  the  flesh,  the  deposit,  little  cell  by 
cell,  of  strange  thoughts  and  fantastic  reveries  and  ex- 
quisite passions.  Set  it  for  a  moment  beside  one  of 
those  white  Greek  Goddesses  or  beautiful  women  of 
antiquity,   and   how  would   they  be  troubled   by  this 


84  A  WANDERER  IN   PARIS 

beauty,  into  which  the  soul  with  all  its  maladies  has 
passed  !  All  the  thoughts  and  experience  of  the  world 
have  etched  and  moulded  there,  in  that  which  they  have 
of  power  to  refine  and  make  expressive  the  outward 
form,  the  animalism  of  Greece,  the  lust  of  Rome,  the 
mysticism  of  the  middle  age  with  its  spiritual  ambition 
and  imaginative  loves,  the  return  of  the  Pagan  world, 
the  sins  of  the  Borgias.  She  is  older  than  the  rocks 
among  which  she  sits ;  like  the  vampire,  she  has  been 
dead  many  times,  and  learned  the  secrets  of  the  grave ; 
and  has  been  a  diver  in  deep  seas,  and  keeps  their  fallen 
day  about  her;  and  trafficked  for  strange  webs  with 
Eastern  merchants;  and,  as  Leda,  was  the  mother  of 
Helen  of  Troy,  and,  as  Saint  Anne,  the  mother  of  Mary ; 
and  all  this  has  been  to  her  but  as  the  sound  of  lyres 
and  flutes,  and  lives  only  in  the  delicacy  with  which  it 
has  moulded  the  hanging  lineaments,  and  tinged  the 
eyelids  and  the  hands.  The  fancy  of  a  perpetual  life, 
sweeping  together  ten  thousand  experiences,  is  an  old 
one;  and  modern  philosophy  has  conceived  the  idea 
of  humanity  as  wrought  upon  by,  and  summing  up  in 
itself  all  modes  of  thought  and  life.  Certainly  Lady 
Lisa  might  stand  as  the  embodiment  of  the  old  fancy, 
the  symbol  of  the  modern  idea." 

This  was  what  the  picture  meant  for  Pater ;  whether 
too  much,  is  beside  the  mark.  Pater  thought  it  and 
Pater  wrote  it,  and  that  is  enough.  To  others,  who 
are  not  as  Pater,  it  says  less,  and  possibly  more.  This, 
for  example,  is  what  "Monna  Lisa"  suggested  to  one 


"MONNA   LISA"  85 

of  the  most  distinguished  and  civilised  minds  of  our 
time  —  James  Russell  Lowell :  — 

She  gave  me  all  that  woman  can, 
Nor  her  soul's  nunnery  forego, 
A  confidence  that  man  to  man 
Without  remorse  can  never  show. 

Rare  art,  that  can  the  sense  refine 
Till  not  a  pulse  rebellious  stirs, 
And,  since  she  never  can  be  mine, 
Makes  it  seem  sweeter  to  be  hers! 

Finally,  since  we  cannot  (I  believe)  spend  too  much 
time  upon  this  picture,  let  me  quote  Vasari's  account  of 
it.  "  For  Francesco  del  Giocondo,  Leonardo  undertook 
to  paint  the  portrait  of  Monna  Lisa,  his  wife,  but,  after 
loitering  over  it  for  four  years,  he  finally  left  it  un- 
finished. This  work  is  now  in  the  possession  of  the 
King  Francis  of  France,  and  is  at  Fontainebleau. 
Whoever  shall  desire  to  see  how  far  art  can  imitate 
nature  may  do  so  to  perfection  in  this  head,  wherein 
every  peculiarity  that  could  be  depicted  by  the  utmost 
subtlety  of  the  pencil  has  been  faithfully  reproduced. 
The  eyes  have  the  lustrous  brightness  and  moisture 
which  is  seen  in  life,  and  around  them  are  those  pale, 
red,  and  slightly  livid  circles,  also  proper  to  nature, 
with  the  lashes,  which  can  only  be  copied,  as  these  are, 
with  the  greatest  difficulty ;  the  eyebrows  also  are  rep- 
resented with  the  closest  exactitude,  where  fuller  and 
where  more  thinly  set,  with  the  separate  hairs  delineated 
as  they  issue  from  the  skin,  every  turn  being  followed, 
and  all  the  pores  exhibited  in  a  manner  that  could  not 


86  A  WANDERER  IN  PARIS 

be  more  natural  than  it  is :  the  nose,  with  its  beautiful 
and  delicately  roseate  nostrils,  might  be  easily  believed 
to  be  alive;  the  mouth,  admirable  in  its  outline,  has  the 
lips  uniting  the  rose-tints  of  their  colour  with  that  of 
the  face,  in  the  utmost  perfection,  and  the  carnation  of 
the  cheek  does  not  appear  to  be  painted,  but  truly  of 
flesh  and  blood ;  he  who  looks  earnestly  at  the  pit  of 
the  throat  cannot  but  believe  that  he  sees  the  beating 
of  the  pulses,  and  it  may  be  truly  said  that  this  work  is 
painted  in  a  manner  well  calculated  to  make  the  boldest 
master  tremble,  and  astonishes  all  who  behold  it,  how- 
ever well  accustomed  to  the  marvels  of  art. 

"Monna  Lisa  was  exceedingly  beautiful,  and  while 
Leonardo  was  painting  her  portrait,  he  took  the  pre- 
caution of  keeping  someone  constantly  near  her,  to  sing 
or  play  on  instruments,  or  to  jest  and  otherwise  amuse 
her,  to  the  end  that  she  might  continue  cheerful,  and 
so  that  her  face  might  not  exhibit  the  melancholy  ex- 
pression often  imparted  by  painters  to  the  likenesses 
they  take.  In  this  portrait  of  Leonardo's,  on  the  con- 
trary, there  is  so  pleasing  an  expression,  and  a  smile 
so  sweet,  that  while  looking  at  it  one  thinks  it  rather 
divine  than  human,  and  it  has  ever  been  esteemed  a 
wonderful  work,  since  life  itself  could  exhibit  no  other 
appearance. 

King  Francis  I.  (who  met  our  Henry  VIII.  on  the 
Field  of  the  Cloth  of  Gold)  bought  the  picture  of 
Monna  Lisa  from  the  artist  for  a  sum  of  money  equal 
now  to  £20,000.     It  was  on  a  visit  to  Francis  that 


LA  JOCONDE:    MONNA   LISA 

LEONARDO   DA   VINCI 
{Louvre) 


ROYAL   COLLECTORS  87 

Leonardo  died.  " Monna  Lisa"  was  the  most  valuable 
picture  in  the  cabinet  of  Francis  I.  and  was  first  hung 
there  in  1545.  It  is  very  interesting  to  think  that 
this  work,  the  peculiar  glory  of  the  Gallery,  should  also 
be  its  nucleus,  so  to  speak.  The  Venus  of  Milo  and  the 
Winged  Victory,  which  I  have  grouped  with  "  Monna 
Lisa"  as  its  chief  treasures,  were  not  added  until  the 
last  century. 

Among  other  pictures  in  the  Louvre  which  date 
from  the  inception  of  a  royal  collection  in  the  brain  of 
Francis  I.  are  the  "Virgin  of  the  Rocks"  by  Leonardo, 
Raphael's  "Sainte  Famille"  (No.  1498)  and  "Saint 
Michael,"  Andrea  del  Sarto's  "  Charite"  and  Piombo's 
"Visitation."  Louis  XIII.  began  his  reign  with  about 
fifty  pictures  and  increased  them  to  two  hundred,  while 
under  Louis  XIV.,  the  Louvre's  most  conspicuous 
friend,  the  royal  collection  grew  from  these  two  hundred 
to  two  thousand  —  assisted  greatly  by  Colbert  the  finan- 
cier, who  bought  for  the  Crown  not  only  much  of  the 
collection  of  the  banker  Jabach  of  Cologne,  the  Pier- 
pont  Morgan  of  his  day,  who  had  acquired  the  art 
treasures  of  our  own  Charles  I.,  but  also  the  Mazarin 
bibelots.  Under  Louis  XIV.  and  succeeding  monarchs 
the  pictures  oscillated  between  the  Louvre,  the  Luxem- 
bourg and  Versailles.  The  Revolution  centralised  them 
in  the  Louvre,  and  on  8th  November,  1793,  the  collec- 
tion was  made  over  to  the  public.  During  the  first 
Republic  one  hundred  thousand  francs  a  year  were  set 
aside  for  the  purchase  of  pictures. 


88  A   WANDERER   IN   PARIS 

But  we  are  in  the  Salon  Carre.  Close  beside  "  La 
Joconde"  is  that  Raphael  which  gives  me  personally 
more  pleasure  than  any  of  his  pictures  —  the  portrait, 
beautiful  in  greys  and  blacks,  of  Count  Baldassare 
Castiglione,  reproduced  opposite  page  52;  here  is  a 
Correggio  (No.  1117)  bathed  in  a  glory  of  light;  here 
is  a  golden  Giorgione;  here  is  an  allegory  by  Titian 
(No.  1589),  not  so  miraculously  coloured  as  the  Cor- 
reggio but  wonderfully  rich  and  beautiful;  here  is  a 
little  princess  by  Velasquez;  and  near  it  a  haunting 
portrait  of  a  young  man  (No.  1644)  which  has  been 
attributed  to  many  hands,  but  rests  now  as  the  work  of 
Francia  Bigio.  I  reproduce  it  opposite  page  70.  And 
that  is  but  a  fraction  of  the  treasures  of  the  Salon  Carre. 
For  there  are  other  Titians,  notably  the  portrait  (No. 
1592)  of  a  young  man  with  a  glove  (reproduced  opposite 
page  64),  marked  by  a  beautiful  gravity ;  other  Raphaels 
more  characteristic,  including  "La  Belle  Jardiniere" 
(No.  1496),  filled  with  a  rich  deep  calm;  the  sweetest 
Luini  that  I  remember  (No.  1354),  and  the  immense 
"Marriage  at  Cana"  by  Paolo  Veronese,  which  when 
I  saw  it  recently  was  being  laboriously  engraved  on 
copper  by  a  gentleman  in  the  middle  of  the  room.  It 
was  odd  to  watch  so  careful  a  piece  of  translation  in 
the  actual  making  —  to  see  Veronese's  vast  scene  with 
its  rich  colouring  and  tremendous  energy  coming  down 
into  spider-like  scratches  on  two  square  feet  of  hard 
metal.  I  did  not  know  that  such  patience  was  any 
longer  exercised.     This  picture,  by  the  way,  has  a  double 


ABANDONED   COPIES  89 

interest  —  the  general  and  the  particular.  As  Whistler 
said  of  Switzerland,  you  may  both  admire  the  mountain 
and  recognise  the  tourist  on  the  top.  It  is  full  of 
portraits.  The  bride  at  the  end  of  the  table  is  Eleanor 
of  Austria;  at  her  side  is  Francis  I.  (who  found  his 
way  into  as  many  pictures  as  most  men) ;  next  to  him, 
in  yellow,  is  Mary  of  England.  The  Sultan  Suliman  I. 
and  the  Emperor  Charles  V.  are  not  absent.  The 
musicians  are  the  artist  and  his  friends  —  Paul  himself 
playing  the  'cello,  Tintoretto  the  piccolo,  Titian  the 
bass  viol,  and  Bassano  the  flute.  The  lady  with  a 
toothpick  is   (alas  !)   Vittoria  Colonna. 

It  is,  by  the  way,  always  student-day  at  the  Louvre 
—  at  least  I  never  remember  to  have  been  there,  except 
on  Sundays,  when  copyists  were  not  at  work.  Many  of 
the  copies  are  being  made  to  order  as  altar  pieces  in 
new  churches  and  for  other  definite  purposes.  Not  all, 
however !  A  newspaper  paragraph  lying  before  me 
states  that  the  authorities  of  the  Louvre  have  five 
hundred  unfinished  copies  on  their  hands,  abandoned  by 
their  authors  so  thoroughly  as  never  to  be  inquired  for 
again.     I  am  not  surprised. 

From  the  Salle  Carre  we  enter  the  Grande  Galerie, 
which  begins  with  the  Florentine  School,  and  ends,  a 
vast  distance  away,  with  Rembrandt.  But  first  it  is 
well  to  turn  into  the  little  Salle  des  Primitifs  Italiens, 
a  few  steps  on  the  right,  for  here  are  very  rare  and 
beautiful  things :  Botticelli's  "  Madonna  with  a  child 
and  John  the  Baptist"  (No.  1296);    Domenico  Ghir- 


90  A   WANDERER   IN   PARIS 

landaio's  "Portrait  of  an  old  man  and  a  boy"  (No. 
1322),  which  I  reproduce  opposite  page  136,  that 
triumph  of  early  realism,  and  his  "Visitation"  (No. 
1321),  with  its  joyful  colouring,  culminating  in  a  glori- 
ous orange  gown ;  Benedetto  Ghirlandaio's  "  Christ  on 
the  way  to  Golgotha"  (No.  1323,  on  the  opposite  wall), 
a  fine  hard  red  picture ;  two  little  Piero  de  Cosimos  (on 
each  side  of  the  door),  very  mellow  and  gay  —  represent- 
ing scenes  in  the  marriage  of  Thetes  and  Peleus;  Fra 
Filippo  Lippi's  "  Madonna  and  Child  with  two  sainted 
abbots"  (No.  1344),  and  the  "Nativity"  next  it  (No. 
1343);  a  sweet  and  lovely  "Virgin  and  Child"  (No. 
1345)  of  the  Fra  Filippo  Lippi  school;  another,  also 
very  beautiful,  by  Mainardi  (No.  1367) ;  a  canvas  of  por- 
traits, including  Giotto  and  the  painter  himself,  by  Paolo 
Uccello  (No.  1272),  the  very  picture  described  by  Vasari 
in  the  Lives;  and  Giotto's  scenes  in  the  life  of  St. 
Francis,  in  the  frame  of  which,  as  we  shall  see,  I  once, 
for  historical  comparison,  slipped  the  photograph  of  M. 
Henri  Pol,  charmeur  des  oiseaux.  These  I  name ;  but 
much  remains  that  will  appeal  even  more  to  others. 

To  walk  along  the  Grande  Galerie  is  practically  to 
traverse  the  history  of  art :  Italian,  Spanish,  British, 
German,  Flemish  and  Dutch  paintings  all  hang  here. 
Nothing  is  missing  but  the  French,  which,  however,  are 
very  near  at  hand.  Some  lines  of  Landor  which  always 
come  to  my  mind  in  a  picture  gallery  I  may  quote 
hereabouts  with  peculiar  fitness,  and  also  with  a  desire 
to  transfer  the  haunting  —  a  very  good  one  even  if  one 


LANDOR'S   CREED  91 

does  not  agree  with  the  reference  to  Rembrandt,  which 

I  do  not :  — 

First  bring  me  Raphael,  who  alone  hath  seen 

In  all  her  purity  Heaven's  Virgin  Queen, 

Alone  hath  felt  true  beauty;    bring  me  then 

Titian,  ennobler  of  the  noblest  men; 

And  next  the  sweet  Correggio,  nor  chastise 

His  little  Cupids  for  those  wicked  eyes. 

I  want  not  Rubens's  pink  puffy  bloom, 

Nor  Rembrandt's  glimmer  in  a  dirty  room 

With  these,  nor  Poussin's  nymph-frequented  woods, 

His  templed  heights  and  long-drawn  solitudes. 

I  am  content,  yet  fain  would  look  abroad 

On  one  warm  sunset  of  Ausonian  Claude. 

It  is  no  province  of  this  book  to  take  the  place  of 
a  catalogue ;  but  I  must  mention  a  few  pictures.  The 
left  wall  is  throughout,  I  may  say,  except  in  the  case 
of  the  British  pictures,  the  better.  Here,  very  early, 
is  the  lovely  "  Holy  Family "  of  Andrea  del  Sarto  (No. 
1515);  here  hang  the  four  Leonardos  which  I  have 
mentioned  and  certain  of  his  derivatives;  a  beautiful 
Andrea  Solario  (No.  1530);  a  Lotto,  very  modern  in 
feeling  (No.  1350) ;  a  very  striking  "  Salome"  by  Luini 
(1355),  and  the  same  painter's  "Holy  Family"  (No. 
1353) ;  Mantegna ;  a  fine  Palma ;  Bellini ;  Antonello 
de  Messina;  more  Titians,  including  "The  Madonna 
with  the  rabbit "  (No.  1578)  and  "  Jupiter  and  Antiope  " 
(No.  1587) ;  a  new  portrait  of  a  man  in  armour  by 
Tintoretto,  lately  lent  to  the  Louvre,  one  of  his  gravest 
and  greatest ;  and  so  on  to  the  sweet  Umbrians  —  to 
Perugino  and  to  Raphael,  among  whose  pictures  are  two 


92  A   WANDERER   IN   PARIS 

or  three  examples  of  his  gay  romantic  manner,  the  most 
pleasing  of  which  (No.  1509),  "  Apollo  and  Marsyas,"  is 
only  conjecturally  attributed  to  him. 

We  pass  then  to  Spain  —  to  Murillo,  who  is  repre- 
sented here  both  in  his  rapturous  saccharine  and  his  real- 
istic moods,  "La  Naissance  de  la  Vierge"  (No.  1710) 
and  "Le  Jeune  Mendicant"  (No.  1717) ;  to  Velasquez, 
who,  however,  is  no  longer  credited  with  the  lively  sketch 
of  Spanish  gentlemen  (No.  1734) ;  and  to  Zurbaran,  the 
strong  and  merciless. 

The  British  pictures  are  few  but  choice,  including  a 
very  fine  Raeburn,  and  landscapes  by  Constable  and 
Bonington,  two  painters  whom  the  French  elevated  to 
the  rank  of  master  and  influence  while  we  were  still  de- 
bating their  merits.  Such  a  landscape  as  "  Le  Cottage  " 
(No.  1806)  by  Constable,  with  its  rich  English  simplicity, 
brings  one  up  with  a  kind  of  start  in  the  midst  of  so 
much  grandiosity  and  pomp.  It  is  out  of  place  here, 
and  yet  one  is  very  happy  to  see  it.  From  Britain  we 
pass  to  the  Flemish  and  Germans  —  to  perfect  Holbeins, 
including  an  Erasmus  and  Durer ;  to  Rubens,  who,  how- 
ever, comes  later  in  his  full  force,  and  to  the  gross  and 
juicy  Jordaens. 

Then  sublimity  again ;  for  here  is  Rembrandt  of  the 
Rhine^.  After  Leonardo,  Rembrandt  is  to  me  the  glory 
of  the  Louvre,  and  especially  the  glory  of  the  Grande 
Galerie,  the  last  section  of  which  is  now  hung  with 
twenty-two  of  his  works.  Not  one  of  them  is  perhaps 
superlative  Rembrandt;   there  is  nothing  quite  so  fine 


REMBRANDT  AND   RUBENS  93 

as  the  portrait  of  Elizabeth  Bas  at  the  Ryks,  or  the 
"School  of  Anatomy"  at  the  Mauritshuis,  or  the  "Un- 
just Steward  "  at  Hertford  House ;  but  how  wonderful 
they  are  !  Look  at  the  miracle  of  the  flying  angel  in 
the  picture  of  Tobias  —  how  real  it  is  and  how  light ! 
Look  closely  at  the  two  little  pictures  of  the  philosopher 
in  meditation.  I  have  chosen  the  beautiful  "Venus  et 
L'Amour"  and  the  "Pelerins  d'Emmaus"  for  repro- 
duction ;  but  I  might  equally  have  taken  others.  They 
will  be  found  opposite  146  and  154. 

On  the  other  wall  are  a  few  pictures  by  Rembrandt's 
pupils  and  colleagues,  such  as  Ferdinand  Bol  and  Govaert 
Flinck,  who  were  always  on  the  track  of  the  master; 
and  more  particularly  Gerard  Dou :  note  the  old  woman 
in  his  "Lecture  de  la  Bible,"  for  it  is  Rembrandt's 
mother,  and  also  look  carefully  at  "  La  Femme  Hydro- 
pique,"  one  of  his  most  miraculously  finished  works — a 
Rembrandt  through  the  small  end  of  a  telescope. 

From  these  we  pass  to  the  sumptuous  Salle  Van  Dyck, 
which  in  its  turn  leads  to  the  Salle  Rubens,  and  one  is 
again  filled  with  wonder  at  the  productivity  of  the  twain 
—  pupil  and  master.  Did  he  never  tire,  this  Peter  Paul 
Rubens  ?  Did  a  new  canvas  never  deter  or  abash  him  ? 
It  seems  not.  No  sooner  was  it  set  up  in  his  studio  than 
at  it  he  must  have  gone  like  a  charge  of  cavalry,  magni- 
ficent in  his  courage,  in  his  skill  and  in  his  brio.  What 
a  record !  Has  Rubens'  square  mileage  ever  been 
worked  out,  I  wonder.  He  was  very  like  a  Frenchman : 
it  is  the  vigour  and  spirit  of  Dumas  at  work  with  the 


94  A   WANDERER   IN  PARIS 

brush.  In  the  Louvre  there  are  fifty-four  attested  works, 
besides  many  drawings ;  and  it  seems  to  me  that  I  must 
have  seen  as  many  in  Vienna,  and  as  many  in  Dresden, 
and  as  many  in  Berlin,  and  as  many  in  Antwerp,  and 
as  many  in  Brussels,  to  say  nothing  of  the  glorious  land- 
scape in  Trafalgar  Square.  He  is  always  overpowering ; 
but  for  me  the  quieter,  gentler  brushes.  None  the  less 
the  portrait  of  Helene  Fourment  and  their  two  children, 
in  the  Grande  Galerie,  although  far  from  approaching 
that  exquisite  picture  in  the  Lichtenstein  Gallery  in 
Vienna,  when  the  boys  were  a  little  older,  is  a  beautiful 
and  living  thing  which  one  would  not  willingly  miss. 

Van  Dyck  was,  of  course,  more  austere,  less  boisterous 
and  abundant,  but  his  record  is  hardly  less  amazing, 
and  he  seems  to  have  faced  life-size  equestrian  groups, 
such  as  the  Charles  the  First  here,  without  a  tremor. 
The  Charles  is  superb  in  his  distinction  and  disdain; 
but  for  me,  however,  Van  Dyck  is  the  painter  of  single 
portraits,  of  which,  no  matter  where  I  go,  none  seems 
more  noble  and  satisfying  than  our  own  Cornelius  Van 
Voorst  in  Trafalgar  Square.  But  the  "Dame  et  sa 
Fille,"  which  is  reproduced  on  the  opposite  page,  is 
very  beautiful. 

All  round  the  Salle  Rubens  are  arranged  the  little 
cabinets  in  which  the  small  Dutch  pictures  hang  —  the 
Jan  Steens  and  the  Terburgs,  the  Hals'  and  the  Metsus, 
the  Ruisdaels  and  the  Karel  du  Jardins,  the  Ostades 
and  the  golden  Poelenburghs.  Of  these  what  can  I  say  ? 
There  they  are,  in  their  hundreds,  the  least  of  them 


UNE   DAME   ET   SA   FILLE 

VAN   DYCK 

(Louvre) 


THE    WONDERFUL   DUTCH  95 

worth  many  minutes'  scrutiny.  But  a  few  may  be 
picked  out:  the  Jan  van  Eyck  (No.  198G)  "La  Vierge 
au  Donateur,"  reproduced  opposite  page  166,  in  which 
the  Chancellor  Rollin  reveres  the  Virgin  on  the  roof  of  a 
tower,  and  small  wild  animals  happily  play  around,  and 
we  see  in  the  distance  one  of  those  little  fairy  cities  so 
dear  to  the  Flemish  painter's  imagination ;  David's 
"Noce  de  Cana";  Metsu's  "Vierge  et  Enfant";  the 
Memling  and  the  Rogier  van  der  Weyden,  close  by; 
Franz  Hals'  "  Bohemienne,"  reproduced  opposite  page 
186;  Van  der  Heyden's  lovely  "  Plain  de  Harlem"  (No. 
2382);  Paul  Potter's  "Boisde  LaHaye"  (No.  2529), 
almost  like  a  Diaz,  and  his  little  masterpiece  No.  2526 ; 
the  Terburgs :  the  "  Music  Lesson  "  (No.  2588)  and  the 
charming  "Reading  Lesson"  (No.  2591)  with  the  little 
touzled  fair-haired  boy  in  it,  reproduced  opposite  page 
206;  Ruisdael's  "Paysage  dit  le  Coup  de  Soleil"  (No. 
2560) ;  Hobbema's  "  Moulin  a  eau  "  (No.  2404) ;  and, 
to  my  eyes,  almost  first  of  all,  Vermeer  of  Delft's  "  Lace- 
maker"  (No.  2587),  reproduced  opposite  page  216. 
These  are  all  I  name. 

So  much  for  the  paintings  by  the  masters  of  the 
world.  The  Louvre  also  has  drawings  from  the  same 
hands,  which  hang  in  their  thousands  in  a  series  of 
rooms  on  the  first  floor,  overlooking  the  Rue  de  Rivoli. 
Here,  as  I  have  said,  are  other  Leonardos  (look  particu- 
larly at  No.  389),  and  here,  too,  are  drawings  by  Raphael 
and  Rembrandt,  Correggio  and  Rubens  (a  child's  head 
in   particular),   Domenico   Ghirlandaio   and    Chardin, 


96  A   WANDERER   IN   PARIS 

Mantegna  and  Watteau,  Durer  and  Ingres.  I  re- 
produce only  one,  a  study  attributed  to  the  school  of 
Fabriano,  opposite  page  228.  Here  one  may  spend 
a  month  in  daily  visits  and  wish  never  to  break  the 
habit.  We  have  in  England  hardly  less  valuable  and 
interesting  drawings,  but  they  are  not  to  be  seen  in  this 
way.  One  must  visit  the  Print  Room  of  the  British 
Museum  and  ask  for  them  one  by  one  in  portfolios. 
The  Louvre,  I  think,  manages  it  better. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE    LOUVRE:     II.  MODERN    PICTURES    AND    OTHER 
TREASURES 

The  Early  French  Painters  —  Richard  Parkes  Bonington  —  Chardin 
—  Historical  Paintings  —  Bonington  again  —  The  Moreau  Collec- 
tion —  The  Thomy-Thierret  Collection  —  A  Bad  Catalogue  —  The 
Venus  of  Milo  —  Beautiful  Backs  —  Modern  Sculpture  —  Exqui- 
site Terra-cottas  —  The  necessity  of  Seeing  the  Louvre  every  day  — 
Historical  Associations  —  Petty  Restitutions. 

FRENCH  pictures  early  and  late  now  await  us.  On 
our  way  down  the  Grand  Galerie  we  passed  on 
the  right  two  entrances  to  other  rooms.  Taking  that 
one  which  is  nearer  the  British  School,  we  find  ourselves 
in  Salle  IX.,  leading  to  Salle  X.  and  so  on  to  Galerie 
XVI.,  which  completes  the  series.  In  Salle  X.  the 
beginnings  of  French  art  may  be  studied,  and  in 
particular  the  curious  Japanese  effects  of  the  Ecole 
d'Avignon.  Here  also  is  very  interesting  work  by  Le 
Maitre  de  Moulins  and  a  remarkable  series  of  drawings 
in  the  case  in  the  middle,  representing  the  siege  of  Troy. 
Salle  XI.  is  notable  for  its  portraits  by  Clouet  and 
others ;  in  Salle  XII.  we  find  Le  Sueur,  and  in  Salle  XIII. 
the  curious  brothers  Le  Nain,  of  whom  there  are  very 
interesting  examples  at  the  Ionides  collection  at  South 
h  97 


98  A   WANDERER   IN   PARIS 

Kensington,   but  nothing  better  than  the  haymaking 
scene  here,  No.  542. 

French  painting  of  the  seventeenth  century  bursts 
upon  us  in  the  great  Salle  XIV.  or  Galerie  Mollien, 
of  which  Nicolas  Poussin  and  Ausonian  Claude  are 
the  giants,  thus  completing  Landor's  pleasant  list  with 
which  we  entered  the  Grand  Galerie  in  the  last  chapter. 
There  are  wonderful  things  here,  but  so  crowded  are 
they  that  I  always  feel  lost  and  confused.  There  is, 
however,  compensation  and  relief,  for  the  room  also 
contains  one  minute  masterpiece  which  perhaps  not 
more  than  five  out  of  every  thousand  visitors  have  seen 
and  yet  which  can  be  studied  with  perfect  quietness 
and  leisure.  This  is  a  tiny  water-colour  in  the  revolving 
screen  in  the  middle.  There  is  much  delicate  work  in 
this  screen,  dainty  aquatint  effects  by  the  Dutchmen 
Ostade  and  Van  de  Heyden,  Weenix  and  Borssom,  and 
so  forth ;  but  finest  of  all  (as  so  often  happens)  is  a 
little  richly-coloured  drawing  of  Nottingham  by  Boning- 
ton,  who  as  we  shall  see,  has  a  way  of  cropping  up 
unsuspectedly  and  graciously  in  this  great  collection 
—  and  very  rightly,  since  he  owed  so  much  to  that 
Gallery.  He  was  one  of  the  youngest  students  ever 
admitted,  being  allowed  to  copy  there  at  the  age  of 
fifteen,  while  at  the  Beaux  Arts.  That  was  in  the  year 
after  Waterloo.  There  may  in  the  history  of  the  Gal- 
lery have  been  copyists  equally  young,  but  there  can 
never  have  been  one  more  distinguished  or  who  had 
deeper  influence  on  French  art.     Paris  not  only  made 


"SERENELY    ARRIVING"  99 

Boninaton's  career  but  ended  it,  for  it  was  while  sketch- 
ing  in  its  streets  ten  years  or  more  later  that  he  met 
with  the  sunstroke  which  brought  about  his  death 
when  he  was  only  twenty-seven,  and  stilled  the  marvel- 
lous  hand   for  ever. 

Salle  XV.  is  given  up  to  portraits,  among  them  —  and 
shall  I  say  chief  of  them,  certainly  chief  of  them  in 
point  of  popularity  —  the  adorable  portrait  of  Madame 
Elizabeth  Louise  Vigee  Le  Brun  and  her  daughter, 
painted  by  herself,  which  is  perhaps  the  best-known 
French  picture,  and  of  which  I  give  a  reproduction 
opposite  page  246.  On  a  screen  in  this  room  are  placed 
the  latest  acquisitions.  When  last  I  was  there  the  more 
noticeable  pictures  were  a  portrait  by  Romney  of  him- 
self, rich  and  melancholy,  recalling  to  the  mind  Tenny- 
son's monologue,  and  a  sweet  and  ancient  religieuse  by 
Memling.  There  were  also  some  Corot  drawings,  not 
perhaps  so  good  as  those  in  the  Moreau  collection,  but 
very  beautiful,  and  a  charming  old-world  lady  by  Fra- 
gonard.  These  probably  are  by  this  time  distributed 
over  the  galleries,  and  other  new  arrivals  have  taken 
their  place.     I  hope  so. 

Galerie  XVI.,  which  leads  out  of  the  Salle  de  Por- 
traits, brings  us  to  French  art  of  the  eighteenth  century 
—  to  Greuze  and  David,  to  Fragonard  and  Watteau, 
to  Lancret  and  Boucher,  and,  to  my  mind,  most  charm- 
ing, most  pleasure-giving  of  all,  to  Jean  Baptiste  Simeon 
Chardin,  who  is  to  be  seen  in  perfection  here  and  in  the 
distant  room  which  contains  the  Collection  La  Caze. 


100  A   WANDERER   IN  PARIS 

It  is  probable  that  no  painter  ever  had  quite  so  much 
charm  as  this  kindly  Frenchman,  whose  loving  task  it 
was  to  sweeten  and  refine  homely  Dutch  art.  Chardin 
is  the  most  winsome  of  all  painters:  his  brush  laid  a 
bloom  on  domestic  life.  The  Louvre  has  twenty-eight 
of  his  canvases,  mostly  still-life,  distributed  between  the 
Salle  La  Caze  and  Salle  No.  XVI.,  where  we  now  are. 
The  most  charming  of  all,  which  is  to  be  seen  in  the 
Salle  La  Caze,  is  reproduced  opposite  page  234. 

Having  walked  down  the  left  wall  of  the  Salle,  it  is 
well  to  slip  out  at  the  door  at  the  end  for  a  moment 
and  refresh  oneself  with  another  view  of  Botticelli's 
fresco,  which  is  just  outside,  before  returning  by  the 
other  wall,  as  we  have  to  go  back  through  the  Salle  des 
Portraits  in  order  to  examine  Galerie  VIII.,  a  vast 
room  wholly  filled  with  French  paintings  of  the  first 
half  of  the  nineteenth  century,  bringing  the  nation's 
art  to  the  period  more  or  less  at  which  the  Luxembourg 
takes  it  up,  though  there  is  a  certain  amount  of  over- 
lapping. No  room  in  the  Louvre  so  wants  weeding 
and  re-hanging  as  this,  for  it  is  a  sad  jumble,  the  hard 
studio  brilliance  of  Ingres  conflicting  with  the  charm  of 
Corot,  the  iron  Manet  with  the  gentle  Millet,  Dela- 
croix with  Scheffer.  There  are  pictures  here  which  if 
they  were  only  isolated  would  be  unforgettable ;  but  as 
it  is  they  are  not  even  to  be  seen. 

We  leave  the  room  by  the  door  opposite  that  through 
which  we  came  and  find  ourselves  again  in  the  Grande 
Galerie.     The  way  now   is   to  the   left,   through  the 


MANY  MODERNS  101 

Italian  Schools,  through  the  Salle  Carre  (why  not  stay 
there  and  let  French  art  go  hang?)  through  the 
Galerie  d'Apollon  (of  which  more  anon),  through  the 
Rotunda  and  the  Salle  des  Bijoux  (whither  we  shall 
return),  to  another  crowded  late  eighteenth  and  early 
nineteenth  century  French  room  chiefly  notable  for 
David's  Madame  Recamier  on  her  joyless  little  sofa. 
(Why  didn't  we  stay  in  the  Salon  Carre?)  In  this 
room  also  are  two  large  Napoleonic  pictures  —  one  by 
Gros  representing  General  Buonaparte  visiting  the 
plague  victims  of  Jaffa  in  1799;  the  other,  by  David, 
of  the  consecration  service  in  Notre  Dame,  described  in 
an  earlier  chapter.  To  see  this  kind  of  picture,  at 
which  the  French  have  for  many  years  been  extremely 
apt,  one  must  of  course  go  to  Versailles,  where  the 
history  of  France  is  spread  lavishly  over  many  square 
miles  of  canvas. 

From  this  room  —  La  Salle  des  Sept  Cheminees  — 
we  pass  through  a  little  vestibule,  with  Courbet's  great 
village  funeral  in  it,  to  the  very  pleasant  Salle  La  Caze, 
containing  the  greater  part  of  the  collection  of  the  late 
Dr.  La  Caze,  and  notable  chiefly  for  the  Chard  ins  of 
which  I  have  already  spoken,  and  also,  by  the  further 
door,  for  a  haunting  "Bust  de  femme"  attributed  to 
the  Milanese  School.  But  there  are  other  admirable 
pictures  here,  including  a  Velasquez,  and  it  repays 
study. 

Leaving  by  the  further  door  and  walking  for  some 
distance,  we  come  to  the  His  de  la  Salle  collection  of 


102  A   WANDERER   IN   PARIS 

drawings,  from  which  we  gain  the  Collection  Thiers, 
which  should  perhaps  be  referred  to  here,  although  there 
is  not  the  slightest  necessity  to  see  it  at  all.  The 
Thiers  collection,  which  occupies  two  rooms,  is  remark- 
able chiefly  for  its  water-colour  copies  of  great  paint- 
ings. The  first  President  of  the  Republic  employed 
patient  artists  to  make  copies  suitable  for  hanging 
upon  his  walls  of  such  inaccessible  works  as  the  "  Last 
Judgment"  of  Michael  Angelo  and  Raphael's  Dresden 
Madonna.  The  results  are  certainly  extraordinary, 
even  if  they  are  not  precisely  la  guerre.  The  Arundel 
Society  perhaps  found  its  inspiration  in  this  collection. 
Among  the  originals  there  is  a  fine  Terburg. 

On  leaving  the  Thiers  collection,  one  comes  to  a 
narrow  passage  with  a  little  huddle  of  water-colours, 
very  badly  treated  as  to  light  and  space,  and  well  worth 
more  consideration.  These  pictures  should  not  be 
missed,  for  among  them  are  two  Boningtons,  a  windmill 
in  a  sombre  landscape,  which  I  reproduce  opposite  page 
274,  and  next  to  it  a  masterly  drawing  of  the  statue 
of  Bartolomme  Colleoni  at  Venice,  which  Ruskin  called 
the  finest  equestrian  group  in  the  world.  Bonington, 
who  had  the  special  gift  of  painting  great  pictures  in 
small  compass  (just  as  there  are  men  who  can  use  a 
whole  wall  to  paint  a  little  picture  on),  has  made  a 
drawing  in  which  the  original  sculptor  would  have 
rejoiced.  It  would  do  the  Louvre  authorities  good  if 
these  Boningtons,  which  they  treat  so  carelessly,  were 
stolen.     Nothing  could  be  easier;    I  worked  out  the 


THE   MOREAU   COLLECTION  103 

felony  as  I  stood  there.  All  that  one  would  need  would 
be  a  few  friends  equally  concerned  to  teach  the  Louvre 
a  lesson,  behind  whose  broad  backs  one  could  ply  the 
diamond  and  the  knife.  Were  I  a  company  promoter 
this  is  how  I  should  spend  my  leisure  hours.  Such 
theft  is  very  nigh  virtue. 

Among  other  pictures  in  these  bad  little  rooms  — 
Nos.  XVII.  and  XVIII.  —  are  some  Millets  and  Decamps. 

Two  more  collections  —  and  these  really  more  inter- 
esting than  anything  we  saw  in  Galeries  XIV.  or  XVI., 
or  the  Salle  des  Sept  Cheminees  —  await  us ;  but  they 
need  considerable  powers  of  perambulation.  Chrono- 
logy having  got  us  under  his  thumb,  we  must  make  the 
longer  journey  first  —  to  the  Collection  Moreau.  The 
Collection  Moreau  is  to  be  found  at  the  top  of  the 
Musee  des  Arts  Decoratifs,  the  entrance  to  which  is  in 
the  Rue  de  Rivoli.  In  the  lower  part  of  this  building 
are  held  periodical  exhibitions ;  but  the  upper  parts  are 
likely  at  any  rate  for  a  long  time  to  remain  unchanged, 
and  here  are  wonderful  collections  of  furniture,  and  here 
hang  the  few  but  select  canvases  brought  together  by 
Adolph  Moreau  and  his  son,  and  presented  to  the  nation 
by  M.  Etienne  Moreau-Nelaton. 

In  the  Thomy-Thierret  collection  in  another  top 
storey  of  the  same  inexhaustible  palace  (to  which  our 
fainting  feet  are  bound)  are  Corots  of  the  late  period; 
M.  Moreau  bought  the  earlier.  Here,  among  nearly 
forty  others,  you  may  see  that  portrait  of  Corot  painted 
in  1825,  just  before  he  left  for  Rome,  which  his  parents 


104  A   WANDERER   IN   PARIS 

exacted  from  him  in  return  for  their  consent  to  his  new 
career  and  the  abandonment  of  their  rosy  dreams  of  his 
success  as  a  draper.  Here  you  may  see  "  Un  Moine," 
one  of  the  first  pictures  he  was  able  to  sell  —  for  five 
hundred  francs  (twenty  pounds).  Here  is  the  charming 
marine  "La  Rochelle"  painted  in  1851  and  given  by 
Corot  to  Desbarolles  and  by  Desbarolles  to  the  younger 
Dumas.  Here  is  the  very  beautiful  Ponte  de  Nantes, 
reproduced  opposite  page  252,  belonging  to  his  later 
manner,  and  here  also  is  an  exceptionally  merry  little 
sketch,  "Bateau  de  peche  a  maree  basse."  I  mention 
these  only,  since  selection  is  necessary;  but  everything 
that  Corot  painted  becomes  in  time  satisfying  to  the 
student  and  indispensable  to  its  owner.  Among  the 
pencil  drawings  we  find  this  exquisite  lover  of  nature 
once  more,  with  fifteen  studies  of  his  Mistress. 

One  of  the  most  interesting  of  the  Moreau  pictures 
is  Fantin-Latour's  "  Hommage  a  Delacroix,"  with  its 
figures  of  certain  of  the  great  and  more  daring  writers 
and  painters  of  the  day,  1864,  the  year  after  Delacroix's 
death.  They  are  grouped  about  his  framed  portrait  — 
Manet,  red  haired  and  red  bearded,  a  little  like  Mr. 
Meredith  in  feature;  Whistler,  with  his  white  feather 
black  and  vigorous,  and  his  hand  on  the  historical  cane ; 
Legros  (the  only  member  of  the  group  who  is  still  living, 
and  long  may  he  live  !)  and  Baudelaire,  for  all  the  world 
like  an  innocent  professor.  Manet  himself  is  repre- 
sented here  by  his  famous  "  Dejeuner  sur  l'herbe,"  which 
the  scandalised  Salon  of  1863  refused  to  hang,  and  three 


THOMY-THIERRET  105 

smaller  canvases.  Among  the  remaining  pictures  which 
gave  me  most  pleasure  are  Couture's  portrait  of  Adolphe 
Moreau  the  younger;  Daumier's  "La  Republique"; 
Carriere's  "L'enfant  a  la  soupiere"  (notice  the  white 
bowl) ;  Decamps ' "  La  Battue,"  curiously  like  a  Koninck ; 
and  Troyon's  "  Le  Passage  du  Gue,"  so  rich  and  sweet. 
From  the  Collection  Moreau,  with  its  early  Barbizon 
pictures,  one  ought  to  pass  to  the  collection  Thomy- 
Thierret;  but  it  needs  courage  and  endurance,  for  the 
room  which  contains  these  exquisite  pictures  is  only  to 
be  reached  on  foot  after  climbing  many  stairs  and  walk- 
ing for  what  seem  to  be  many  miles  among  models  of 
ships  and  other  neglected  curiosities  on  the  Louvre's  top- 
most floor.  But  once  the  room  is  reached  one  is  per- 
fectly happy,  for  every  picture  is  a  gem  and  there  is  no 
one  there.  M.  Thomy-Thierret,  who  died  quite  recently, 
was  a  collector  who  liked  pictures  to  be  small,  to  be  rich 
in  colour,  and  to  be  painted  by  the  Barbizon  and 
Romantic  Schools.  Here  you  may  see  twelve  Corots, 
all  of  a  much  later  period  than  those  bequeathed  by  M. 
Moreau,  among  them  such  masterpieces  as  "  La  Vallon  " 
(No.  2801),  reproduced  opposite  the  next  page,  "Le 
Chemin  de Sevres "  (No. 2803),  "Entree  de  Village "  (No. 
2808),  "Les  Chaumieres"  (No.  2809),  and  "La  Route 
d'Arras"  (No.  2810).  Here  are  thirteen  Daubignys,  in- 
cluding "Les  Graves  de  Villerville"  (No.  28,177),  and 
one  sombre  and  haunting  English  scene  —  "  La  Tamise 
a  Erith"  (No.  2821).  Here  are  ten  Diaz',  most  beau- 
tiful of  which  to  my  eyes  is  "  L'EpIoree  "  (No.  2863). 


106  A   WANDERER   IN    PARIS 

Here  are  ten  Rousseaus,  among  them  "  Lc  Printemps  " 
(No.  2903),  with  its  rapturous  freshness,  which  I  re- 
produce opposite  page  116,  and  "  Les  Chenes" 
(No.  2900),  such  a  group  of  trees  as  Rousseau  alone 
could  paint.  Here  are  six  Millets,  my  favourite  be- 
ing the  "Precaution  Maternelle"  (No.  2894),  with  its 
lovely  blues,  which  again  reappear  in  "Le  Vanneur" 
(No.  2893).  Here  are  eleven  Troyons,  of  which  "La 
Provende  des  poules"  (No.  2907),  with  its  bustle  of  tur- 
keys and  chickens  around  the  gay  peasant  girl  beneath 
a  burning  sky,  reproduced  opposite  page  266,  is  one  of 
the  first  pictures  to  which  my  feet  carry  me  on  my  visits 
to  Paris.  Here  are  twelve  Dupres,  most  memorable  of 
which  is  "  Les  Landes"  (No.  2871).  And  here  also  are 
Delacroixs,  Isabeys  and  Meissoniers.  I  suppose  it  is 
the  best  permanent  collection  of  these  masters. 

So  much  for  the  pictures.  There  remains  an  im- 
mense variety  of  beautiful  and  interesting  objects  to  be 
seen :  so  immense  that  it  is  almost  ridiculous  to  attempt 
to  write  of  them  in  such  a  book  as  this. 

The  sculpture  alone  .  .  .  ! 

Let  us  at  any  rate  walk  through  the  sculpture  gal- 
leries. To  write  about  painting  is  sufficiently  difficult 
and  unsatisfactory;  to  write  about  sculpture  is  practi- 
cally impossible.  Another  obstacle  is  that  the  numbers 
in  the  official  catalogue  that  is  sold  in  the  Louvre  and 
the  numbers  on  the  statues  do  not  correspond,  so  that 
one  becomes  as  perplexed  and  irritated  as  the  King  and 
Queen  in  Andersen's  story  of  "The  Tinder  Box"  after 


THE   VENUS   OF   MILO  107 

the  dog  with  eyes  as  big  as  saucers  had  chalked  the  same 
figure  on  every  house  in  the  street. 

We  in  England  see  so  little  statuary  and  know  so 
little  about  it,  that  the  visits  of  the  English  traveller 
to  the  sculpture  galleries  of  the  Louvre,  chiefly  made  in 
order  that  he  may  say  that  he  has  seen  the  Venus  of 
Milo,  are  few  and  hurried.  To  most  of  us  all  sculpture 
is  equally  good  and  equally  cold  ;  but  anyone  who  has 
an  eye  for  the  beauty  of  form  will  find  these  rooms 
a  paradise.  We  have  isolated  figures  in  the  British 
Museum  that  stand  apart,  and  we  have  of  course  the 
Elgin  marbles,  which  are  as  fine  as  anything  in  the 
Louvre,  nor  is  there  anything  there  with  quite  such  a 
quality  of  tender  charm  as  our  new  figure  of  a  mourning 
woman ;  but  when  all  is  said  the  Louvre  collection,  as 
is  only  natural  in  a  sculpture-loving  nation,  is  vastly 
better  than  our  own.  The  bronzes  alone  —  in  the 
Galerie  Denon  —  leave  us  hopelessly  behind. 

You  see  the  Venus  of  Milo  before  you  all  the  way 
along  her  corridor:  she  stands  quietly  and  glimmeringly 
beckoning  at  the  very  end  of  it,  alone,  before  her  dark 
red  background.  Why  the  Venus  of  Milo  is  so  radi- 
antly satisfying,  so  almost  terribly  beautiful,  I  cannot 
explain;  but  there  it  is.  It  is  a  cold  beauty,  but  it  is 
magical  too ;  it  dominates,  controls.  And  with  it  there 
is  peace ;  a  dove  broods  somewhere  near.  The  strangest 
thing  of  all  is  that  one  never  misses  the  arms.  It  is  as 
though  the  arms  were  a  defect  in  a  perfect  woman. 
How  they  can  have  been  disposed  by  the  sculptor  I 


108  A   WANDERER   IN   PARIS 

used  once  languidly  to  speculate;  but  I  am  interested 
no  more.  Those,  however,  that  are  should  remember 
to  look  at  the  neighbouring  glass  case,  where  portions 
of  hands  and  arms,  discovered  with  the  Venus  in  the 
soil  of  Milo  in  1820  (the  world  has  known  this  wonder 
only  eighty-nine  years:  Napoleon  never  saw  her)  are 
preserved. 

There  is  little  room  for  me  to  enumerate  the  statues 
that  should  retard  your  steps  to  her;  but  the  Borghese 
Mars  is  certainly  one,  in  the  midst  of  the  rotunda,  and  I 
personally  am  attracted  by  the  Silenus  nursing  Bacchus 
in  the  same  room.  In  the  Salle  du  Sarcophage  de 
Medee  there  is  a  little  torso  of  Amour  on  the  left  of 
Apollo,  also  with  a  beautiful  back.  In  the  Salle  de 
1'Hermaphrodite  de  Velletri  notice  a  draped  figure  lack- 
ing a  head,  close  to  the  Hermaphrodite  on  the  right. 

From  the  Venus  of  Milo  one  turns  to  the  Giant  Mel- 
pomene keeping  guard  majestically  over  the  mosaic 
pavement  below  her,  which  at  first  sight  one  thinks  to 
be  very  old,  but  which  dates  only  from  the  time  of 
Napoleon,  whose  genius  is  symbolised  by  Minerva. 
There  are  few  more  lovely  shades  of  colour  in  the  Louvre 
than  are  preserved  in  this  floor. 

In  the  Salle  des  Caryatides,  from  which  there  is  an 
exit  into  the  courtyard  of  the  old  Louvre,  there  is  a 
rugged  Hercules,  a  boorish  god  with  a  club,  that  always 
fascinates  me.  The  Hercules  who  carries  Telephe,  just 
at  the  entrance,  though  fine,  is  a  far  less  attractive  figure. 
Also  notice  the  child  with  the  goose,  dug  up  in  the 


BEAUTIFUL  BACKS  109 

Appian  Way  in  1789;  the  towering  Alexander  the 
Great;  the  Jupiter  de  Versailles;  the  "  Mercure  at- 
tachant  sa  sandale  " ;  the  "  Bacchus  couronne  de  pam- 
pes";  the  "Discobulus  au  repos."  I  give  no  numbers 
for  a  reason  explained  above  —  a  privation  which  I  re- 
gret, since  I  cannot  draw  attention  to  two  or  three  torsi 
with  the  most  exquisite  backs,  one  in  one  of  the  windows 
entitled  "Amour  avec  les  attributs  d'Hercule." 

In  the  Salle  des  Heros  Combattant  note  the  mischiev- 
ous head  of  the  "  Jeune  Satyre  souriant,"  in  the  middle. 

In  the  Salle  de  la  Pallas  de  Velletri,  the  "  Genie  du 
repos  eternel,"  most  feminine  of  youths,  is  alluring,  and 
here  are  the  Venus  d'Arles  and  the  Appollon  Sauroctone 
after  a  bronze  by  Praxiteles.  Note  also  the  life  and 
spirit  of  the  "  Centaure  dompte  par  l'Amour,"  and  there 
are  beautiful  torsi  here,  with  fluid  lines ;  also  a  charming 
"Jeune  homme  casque,  dit  Mars."  In  the  next  room, 
the  Salle  du  Tibre,  are  other  examples  of  perfect 
modelling  —  in  the  two  or  three  "  Jeunes  Satyres  vetus 
de  la  nebride,"  which  are  here,  and  in  one  or  two  figures 
in  the  window  diagonally  opposite  to  the  door;  and 
look  also  at  the  two  Venuses  "  accroupit "  in  the  middle, 
with  the  remains  of  little  hands  on  their  backs.  But 
the  colossal  statue  of  old  Father  Tiber  with  Romulus 
and  Remus  is  the  dominating  group. 

I  suspect  that  a  census  of  the  visitors  to  the  modern 
sculpture  in  the  Louvre  would  yield  very  low  figures. 
This  is  not  surprising  for  at  least  two  reasons,  one  being 
that  the  sculpture  displayed  there  is  of  poor  quality, 


110  A  WANDERER   IN   PARIS 

not  made  the  less  inferior  by  being  adjacent  to  so  much 
of  the  best  sculpture  in  the  world,  and  the  other  that 
it  is  so  exceedingly  difficult  to  find  the  way  in.  My 
advice  to  the  reader  is,  Don't  find  it.  If,  however,  you 
insist,  you  will  have  the  opportunity  of  selecting  suitable 
adjectives  for  the  work  of  Coyzevox  and  Puget,  Coustou 
and  Pigalle  (after  whom  is  named  the  roystering  Place 
Pigalle  to  which  so  many  cabs  and  motors  urge  their 
giddy  way  in  the  small  hours),  Houdon  (who  could  be 
rather  charming)  and  Ramly  (who  couldn't) ;  Jeraud 
and  Rude,  Chaudet  and  the  vivid  Carpeaux.  Without 
the  work  of  these  men  Paris  would  not  be  what  it  is,  for 
we  meet  the  creations  of  their  mallet  and  chisel  at  every 
turn ;  and  yet  I  know  of  few  spots  so  depressing  as  the 
galleries  that  enshrine  their  indoor  work.  Carpeaux 
for  example  designed  the  group  called  "La  Danse" 
on  the  wall  of  the  Opera. 

More  charming  by  far  is  the  Renaissance  Sculpture 

—  the  Delia  Robbias  and  Donatellos  —  in  the  Ren- 
aissance Galleries,  also  on  the  ground  floor  in  the  extreme 
South  East  Wing ;  but  these  are  often  closed. 

In  all  the  galleries  of  what  may  be  called  the  secondary 
Louvre  —  the  pictures  and  ancient  sculpture  coming  first 

—  nothing  gives  me  so  much  pleasure  as  the  wall  paint- 
ings from  Rome  and  Pompeii,  of  such  exquisite  deli- 
cacy of  colour  and  now  and  then  of  design,  and  the 
terra-cotta  figures,  in  the  rooms  above  the  Renais- 
sance Gallery :  grotesque  comedians,  cheerful  peasants, 
mothers  and  children  as  simple  and  sweet  as  Millet's, 


EMBARRASSMENT  OF  RICHES         111 

merry  Cupids,  hooded  ladies,  and  in  Room  B.  two 
winged  figures  (Nos.  86  and  88)  that  are  lighter  than  air. 
In  Room  L.  look  particularly  at  the  statuette  of  a  peda- 
gogue. In  the  Salle  de  Clarac,  containing  the  collection 
of  M.  Clarac,  look  also  very  particularly  at  the  little 
marble  statue,  broken  but  perfect  too,  of  the  crouching 
woman  —  No.  2631  —  who  ought  to  be  on  a  revolving 
table,  so  lovely  must  her  back  be. 

I  say  nothing  of  the  other  famous  collections  of  the 
Louvre  —  the  Egyptian  and  Assyrian  and  Chaldean 
rooms,  the  furniture,  the  ceramics,  the  models  of  ships 
and  so  forth.  The  riches  of  this  palace  are  too  varied 
and  too  many.  But  the  little  room  between  the 
Rotunde  d'Apollon  and  the  Salle  des  Sept  Cheminees 
I  must  refer  to,  because  that  contains  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  objects  in  the  whole  building  —  the  Etruscan 
funeral  casque,  the  grey-green  and  gold  of  which,  but 
particularly  the  grey-green  —  the  hue  of  verdigris  — 
catch  the  eye  so  often  as  one  passes  and  repasses  this  spot. 
In  this  room  also  are  miracles  of  goldsmith's  and  silver- 
smith's art  from  the  ruins  of  Pompeii,  the  gift  of  Baron 
Edward  de  Rothschild  in  1895;  and  in  the  Galerie 
d'Apollon  one  must  of  course  spend  time  to  study  its 
priceless  goldsmith's  work  and  carved  jewels.  But  the 
pen  swoons  at  the  thought  of  describing  them. 

Further  description  of  the  Louvre  collections  is  not 
practicable  in  this  book;  nor  indeed  could  any  book 
or  any  library,  really  do  them  justice;  nor  could  one 
obtain  more  than  a  faint  impression  of  these  riches  if 


112  A   WANDERER  IN  PARIS 

one  visited  the  Louvre  every  morning  for  a  month.  But 
that  undoubtedly  is  what  one  ought  to  do.  Every  day 
one  should  for  a  while  loiter  there. 

One  entirely  loses  sight  of  the  fact  as  one  walks 
through  the  Louvre  that  it  was  ever  anything  but  an 
interminable  museum,  so  much  so  indeed  that  a  separate 
visit  is  necessary  merely  to  keep  our  thoughts  fixed  on 
the  history  of  the  palace,  for  in  almost  every  room 
something  of  extraordinary  interest  has  happened. 
Kings  and  Queens  have  lived,  loved,  suffered  and  died 
in  them;  statesmen  have  met  there  to  declare  war; 
banquets  and  balls  have  enlivened  them.  In  the  vesti- 
bule or  rotunda  at  the  head  of  the  grand  staircase  on 
the  left  leading  into  the  glorious  steel  gates  of  the 
Galerie  d'Apollon,  Henri  IV.,  brought  hither  from  the 
Rue  de  la  Ferronerie  where  Ravaillac  stabbed  him, 
breathed  his  last.  In  the  Salle  La  Caze,  where  we  saw 
the  Chardins,  were  held  the  great  fetes  under  Charles  IX. 
and  Henri  III.  In  the  Salle  des  Caryatides,  where 
now  is  only  sculpture,  once  dangled  from  the  ceiling  the 
hanged  assassin  of  President  Bresson. 

Another  visit  is  necessary  for  the  examination  of  the 
paintings  on  the  ceilings,  which  one  never  sees  or  even 
thinks  of  when  one  is  new  to  the  rooms.  But  this  is  a 
duty  which  is  by  no  means  unavoidable. 

The  Louvre  is  to-day  the  most  wonderful  museum  in 
the  world ;  but  what  would  one  not  give  to  be  able  to 
visit  it  as  it  was  in  1814,  when  it  was  in  some  respects 
more  wonderful  still.     For  then  it  was  filled  with  the 


THE   PRICE   OF  HONOUR  113 

spoils  of  Napoleon's  armies,  who  had  instructions  always 
to  bring  back  from  the  conquered  cities  what  they  could 
see  that  was  likely  to  beautify  and  enrich  France.  It 
is  a  reason  for  war  in  itself.  I  would  support  any  war 
with  Austria,  for  example,  that  would  bring  to  London 
Count  Czernin's  Vermeer  and  the  Parmigianino  in  the 
Vienna  National  Gallery ;  any  war  with  Germany  that 
would  put  the  Berlin  National  Gallery  at  our  disposal. 
Napoleon  had  other  things  to  fight  for,  but  that  com- 
prehensive brain  forgot  nothing,  and  as  he  deposed  a 
king  he  remembered  a  blank  space  in  the  Louvre  that 
lacked  a  Raphael,  an  empty  niche  waiting  for  its 
Phidias.  The  Revolution  decreed  the  Museum,  but  it 
was  Napoleon  who  made  it  priceless  and  glorious.  After 
the  fall  of  this  man  a  trumpery  era  of  restitution  set  in. 
Many  of  his  noble  patriotic  thefts  were  cancelled  out. 
The  world  readjusted  itself  and  shrank  into  its  old 
pettiness.  Priceless  pictures  and  statues  were  carried 
again  to  Italy  and  Austria,  Napoleon  to  St.  Helena. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE   TUILERIES 

A  Vanished  Palace  —  The  Most  Magnificent  Vista  —  Enter  Louis 
XVI.  and  Marie  Antoinette  —  The  Massacre  of  the  Swiss  Guards  — 
The  Blood  of  Paris  —  A  Series  of  Disasters  —  The  Growth  of  Paris  — 
The  Napoleonic  Rebuilders  —  The  Arc  de  Triomphe  de  Carrousel  — 
The  Irony  of  History  —  A  Frock  Coat  Rampant  —  The  Statuary  of 
Paris  —  The  Gardens  of  the  Tuileries  —  Monsieur  Pol,  Charmer  of 
Birds — The  Parisian  Sparrow  —  Hyde  Park — The  Drum. 

HAD  we  turned  our  back  only  thirty-eight  years 
ago  on  Fremiet's  statue  of  Joan  of  Arc  (which 
was  not  there  then)  in  the  Place  de  Rivoli,  and  walked 
down  what  is  now  the  Rue  de  Tuileries  towards  the 
Seine,  we  should  have  had  on  our  left  hand  a  beautiful 
and  imposing  building  —  the  Palace  of  the  Tuileries, 
which  united  the  two  wings  of  the  Louvre  that  now 
terminate  in  the  Pavilion  de  Marsan  just  by  the  Place 
de  Rivoli  and  the  Pavilion  de  Flore  on  the  Quai  des 
Tuileries.  The  palace  stretched  right  across  this  inter- 
val, thus  interrupting  the  wonderful  vista  of  to-day 
from  the  old  Louvre  right  away  to  the  Arc  de  Triomphe 
—  probably  the  most  extraordinary  and  beautiful  civi- 
lised, or  artificial,  vista  in  the  world.  The  palace  had, 
however,  a  sufficiently  fine  if  curtailed  share  of  it  from 
its  own  windows. 

114 


HISTORY  AGAIN  115 

All  Parisians  upwards  of  forty-five  must  remember 
the  Palace  perfectly,  for  it  was  not  destroyed  until  1871, 
during  the  Commune,  and  it  was  some  years  after  that 
incendiary  period  before  all  traces  were  removed  and 
the  gardens  spread  uninterruptedly  from  the  Carrousel 
to  the  Concorde. 

The  Palace  of  the  Tuileries  (so  called  because  it 
occupied  a  site  previously  covered  by  tile  kilns)  was 
begun  in  1564  and  had  therefore  lived  for  three  cen- 
turies. Catherine  de  Medicis  planned  it,  but,  as  we 
shall  read  later,  she  lost  interest  in  it  very  quickly 
owing  to  one  of  those  inconvenient  prophecies  which 
were  wont  in  earlier  times  so  to  embarrass  rulers,  but 
which  to-day  in  civilised  countries  have  entirely  gone 
out.  The  Tuileries  was  a  happy  enough  palace,  as 
palaces  go,  until  the  Revolution :  it  then  became  for 
a  while  the  very  centre  of  rebellion  and  carnage;  for 
Louis  XVI.  and  the  Royal  Family  were  conveyed 
thither  after  the  fatal  oath  had  been  sworn  in  the 
Versailles  tennis-court.  Then  came  the  critical  10th  of 
August,  when  the  King  consented  to  attend  the  confer- 
ence in  the  Manege  (now  no  more,  but  a  tablet  oppo- 
ite  the  Rue  Castiglione  marks  the  spot)  and  thus  lost 
everything. 

The  massacre  of  the  Swiss  Guards  followed  :  but  here 
it  is  impossible,  or  at  least  absurd,  not  to  hear  Carlyle. 
Mandal,  Commander  of  the  National  Guard,  I  would 
premise,  has  been  assassinated  by  the  crowd ;  the  Con- 
stitutional Assembly  sits  in  the  Manege,  and  the  King, 


116  A  WANDERER   IN  PARIS 

a  prisoner  in  the  Tuileries,  but  still  a  hesitant  and  an 
optimist,  is  ordered  to  attend  it.  At  last  he  consents. 
"  King  Louis  sits,  his  hands  leant  on  his  knees,  body 
bent  forward ;  gazes  for  a  space  fixedly  on  Syndic 
Rcederer;  then  answers,  looking  over  his  shoulder  to 
the  Queen:  Marchons!  They  march;  King  Louis, 
Queen,  Sister  Elizabeth,  the  two  royal  children  and 
governess :  these,  with  Syndic  Rcederer,  and  Officials  of 
the  Department;  amid  a  double  rank  of  National 
Guards.  The  men  with  blunderbusses,  the  steady  red 
Swiss  gaze  mournfully,  reproachfully;  but  hear  only 
these  words  from  Syndic  Rcederer:  'The  King  is  going 
to  the  Assembly;  make  way.'  It  has  struck  eight,  on 
all  clocks,  some  minutes  ago:  the  King  has  left  the 
Tuileries  —  for  ever. 

"  O  ye  stanch  Swiss,  ye  gallant  gentlemen  in  black, 
for  what  a  cause  are  ye  to  spend  and  be  spent !  Look 
out  from  the  western  windows,  ye  may  see  King  Louis 
placidly  hold  on  his  way;  the  poor  little  Prince  Royal 
'sportfully  kicking  the  fallen  leaves.'  Fremescent 
multitude  on  the  Terrace  of  the  Feuillants  whirls 
parallel  to  him ;  one  man  in  it,  very  noisy,  with  a  long 
pole:  will  they  not  obstruct  the  outer  Staircase,  and 
back-entrance  of  the  Salle,  when  it  comes  to  that? 
King's  Guards  can  go  no  farther  than  the  bottom  step 
there.  Lo,  Deputation  of  Legislators  come  out;  he  of 
the  long  pole  is  stilled  by  oratory;  Assembly's  Guards 
join  themselves  to  King's  Guards,  and  all  may  mount 
in  this  case  of  necessity;   the  outer  Staircase  is  free,  or 


THE   SWISS   GUARDS  117 

passable.  See,  Royalty  ascends ;  a  blue  Grenadier  lifts 
the  poor  little  Prince  Royal  from  the  press;  Royalty 
has  entered  in.  Royalty  has  vanished  for  ever  from 
your  eyes.  —  And  ye  ?  Left  standing  there,  amid  the 
yawning  abysses,  and  earthquake  of  Insurrection ;  with- 
out course;  without  command:  if  ye  perish,  it  must 
be  as  more  than  martyrs,  as  martyrs  who  are  now  with- 
out a  cause !  The  black  Courtiers  disappear  mostly ; 
through  such  issues  as  they  can.  The  poor  Swiss  know 
not  how  to  act :  one  duty  only  is  clear  to  them,  that  of 
standing  by  their  post ;  and  they  will  perform  that. 

"  But  the  glittering  steel  tide  has  arrived ;  it  beats 
now  against  the  Chateau  barriers  and  eastern  Courts; 
irresistible,  loud-surging  far  and  wide ;  —  breaks  in,  fills 
the  Court  of  the  Carrousel,  blackbrowed  Marseillese 
in  the  van.  King  Louis  gone,  say  you;  over  to  the 
Assembly !  Well  and  good :  but  till  the  Assembly 
pronounce  Forfeiture  of  him,  what  boots  it?  Our 
post  is  in  that  Chateau  or  stronghold  of  his;  there 
till  then  must  we  continue.  Think,  ye  stanch  Swiss, 
whether  it  were  good  that  grim  murder  began,  and 
brothers  blasted  one  another  in  pieces  for  a  stone 
edifice  ?  —  Poor  Swiss  !  they  know  not  how  to  act :  from 
the  southern  windows,  some  fling  cartridges,  in  sign  of 
brotherhood ;  on  the  eastern  outer  staircase,  and  within 
through  long  stairs  and  corridors,  they  stand  firm- 
ranked,  peaceable  and  yet  refusing  to  stir.  Westermann 
speaks  to  them  in  Alsatian  German;  Marseillese  plead, 
in  hot  Provencal  speech  and  pantomime ;   stunning  hub- 


118  A   WANDERER  IN  PARIS 

bub  pleads  and  threatens,  infinite,  around.  The  Swiss 
stand  fast,  peaceable  and  yet  immovable;  red  granite 
pier  in  that  waste-flashing  sea  of  steel. 

"  Who  can  help  the  inevitable  issue ;  Marseillese  and 
all  France  on  this  side;  granite  Swiss  on  that?  The 
pantomime  grows  hotter  and  hotter ;  Marseillese  sabres 
flourishing  by  way  of  action ;  the  Swiss  brow  also  cloud- 
ing itself,  the  Swiss  thumb  bringing  its  firelock  to  the 
cock.  And  hark  !  high  thundering  above  all  the  din, 
three  Marseillese  cannon  from  the  Carrousel,  pointed  by 
a  gunner  of  bad  aim,  come  rattling  over  the  roofs  !  Ye 
Swiss,  therefore :  Fire  !  The  Swiss  fire ;  by  volley,  by 
platoon,  in  rolling  fire :  Marseillese  men  not  a  few,  and 
'a  tall  man  that  was  louder  than  any,'  lie  silent,  smashed 
upon  the  pavement ;  —  not  a  few  Marseillese,  after  the 
long  dusty  march,  have  made  halt  here.  The  Carrousel 
is  void;  the  black  tide  recoiling;  'fugitives  rushing 
as  far  as  Saint-Antoine  before  they  stop.'  The  Can- 
noneers without  linstock  have  squatted  invisible,  and 
left  their  cannon ;  which  the  Swiss  seize.  .  .  . 

"Behold,  the  fire  slackens  not;  nor  does  the  Swiss 
rolling-fire  slacken  from  within.  Nay  they  clutched 
cannon,  as  we  saw ;  and  now,  from  the  other  side,  they 
clutch  three  pieces  more ;  alas,  cannon  without  linstock ; 
nor  will  the  steel-and-flint  answer,  though  they  try  it. 
Had  it  chanced  to  answer !  Patriot  onlookers  have 
their  misgivings ;  one  strangest  Patriot  onlooker  thinks 
that  the  Swiss,  had  they  a  commander,  would  beat. 
He  is  a  man  not  unqualified  to  judge ;  the  name  of  him 


CARNAGE  119 

Napoleon  Buonaparte.  And  onlookers,  and  women, 
stand  gazing,  and  the  witty  Dr.  Moore  of  Glasgow 
among  them,  on  the  other  side  of  the  River:  cannon 
rush  rumbling  past  them ;  pause  on  the  Pont  Royal ; 
belch  out  their  iron  entrails  there,  against  the  Tuileries ; 
and  at  every  new  belch,  the  women  and  onlookers '  shout 
and  clap  hands.'  City  of  all  the  Devils !  In  remote 
streets,  men  are  drinking  breakfast-coffee;  following 
their  affairs;  with  a  start  now  and  then,  as  some  dull 
echo  reverberates  a  note  louder.  And  here  ?  Marseil- 
lese  fall  wounded ;  but  Barbaroux  has  surgeons ;  Barba- 
roux  is  close  by,  managing,  though  underhand  and  under 
cover.  Marseillese  fall  death-struck;  bequeath  their 
firelock,  specify  in  which  pocket  are  the  cartridges ;  and 
die  murmuring,  'Revenge  me,  Revenge  thy  country!' 
Brest  Federe  Officers,  galloping  in  red  coats,  are  shot  as 
Swiss.  Lo  you,  the  Carrousel  has  burst  into  flame  ! — 
Paris  Pandemonium  !  Nay  the  poor  City,  as  we  said, 
is  in  fever-fit  and  convulsion :  such  crisis  has  lasted  for 
the  space  of  some  half  hour. 

"But  what  is  this  that,  with  Legislative  Insignia, 
ventures  through  the  hubbub  and  death-hail,  from  the 
back-entrance  of  the  Manege  ?  Towards  the  Tuileries 
and  Swiss:  written  Order  from  his  Majesty  to  cease 
firing  !  O  ye  hapless  Swiss,  why  was  there  no  order  not 
to  begin  it  ?  Gladly  would  the  Swiss  cease  firing :  but 
who  will  bid  mad  Insurrection  cease  firing?  To  In- 
surrection you  cannot  speak;  neither  can  it,  hydra- 
headed,  hear.     The  dead  and  dying,  by  the  hundred, 


120  A  WANDERER   IN  PARIS 

lie  all  around;  are  borne  bleeding  through  the  streets, 
towards  help;  the  sight  of  them,  like  a  torch  of  the 
Furies,  kindling  Madness.  Patriot  Paris  roars ;  as  the 
bear  bereaved  of  her  whelps.  On,  ye  Patriots :  Ven- 
geance !  Victory  or  death  !  There  are  men  seen,  who 
rush  on,  armed  only  with  walking-sticks.  Terror  and 
Fury  rule  the  hour. 

"  The  Swiss,  pressed  on  from  without,  paralysed  from 
within,  have  ceased  to  shoot;  but  not  to  be  shot. 
What  shall  they  do  ?  Desperate  is  the  moment. 
Shelter  or  instant  death :  yet  How,  Where  ?  One 
party  flies  out  by  the  Rue  de  l'Echelle;  is  destroyed 
utterly, '  en  entier.'  A  second,  by  the  other  side,  throws 
itself  into  the  Garden ;  '  hurrying  across  a  keen  fusil- 
lade'; rushes  suppliant  into  the  National  Assembly; 
finds  pity  and  refuge  in  the  back  benches  there.  The 
third,  and  largest,  darts  out  in  column,  three  hundred 
strong,  towards  the  Champs-Elysees :  'Ah,  could  we 
but  reach  Courbevoye,  where  other  Swiss  are  ! '  Wo ! 
see,  in  such  fusillade  the  column  '  soon  breaks  itself  by 
diversity  of  opinion,'  into  distracted  segments,  this  way 
and  that ;  —  to  escape  in  holes,  to  die  fighting  from  street 
to  street.  The  firing  and  murdering  will  not  cease; 
not  yet  for  long.  The  red  Porters  of  Hotels  are  shot 
at,  be  they  Suisse  by  nature,  or  Suisse  only  in  name.  .  .   . 

"  Surely  few  things  in  the  history  of  carnage  are  pain- 
fuller.  What  ineffaceable  red  streak,  flickering  so  sad 
in  the  memory,  is  that,  of  this  poor  column  of  red  Swiss 
'  breaking  itself  in  the  confusion  of  opinions  ' ;   dispers- 


VICISSITUDES  121 

ing,  into  blackness  and  death  !  Honour  to  you,  brave 
men ;  honourable  pity,  through  long  times !  Not 
martyrs  were  ye;  and  yet  almost  more.  He  was  no 
King  of  yours,  this  Louis;  and  he  forsook  you  like  a 
King  of  shreds  and  patches:  ye  were  but  sold  to  him 
for  some  poor  sixpence  a-day;  yet  would  ye  work  for 
your  wages,  keep  your  plighted  word.  The  work  now 
was  to  die ;  and  ye  did  it.  Honour  to  you,  O  Kins- 
men." 

Is  that  too  dreadful  an  association  for  this  spot  ?  It 
is  terrible ;  but  to  visit  Paris  without  any  historical  in- 
terest is  too  materialistic  a  proceeding,  and  to  have  the 
historical  interest  in  Paris  and  be  afraid  of  a  little  blood 
is  an  untenable  position.     Paris  is  steeped  in  blood. 

The  Tuileries  had  not  seen  all  its  riot  yet;  July  29th, 
1830,  was  to  come,  when,  after  another  taste  of  mon- 
archy, revived  in  1814  after  its  murder  on  that  appalling 
10th  of  August  (which  was  virtually  its  death  day,  al- 
though the  date  of  the  birth  of  the  First  Republic  stands 
as  September  21st,  1793),  the  mob  attacked  the  Palace, 
the  last  Bourbon  king,  Charles  X.,  fled  from  it  and  from 
France,  and  Louis-Philippe  of  Orleans  mounted  the 
throne  in  his  stead.  But  that  was  not  all.  Another 
seventeen  and  a  half  years  and  revengeful  time  saw 
Louis-Philippe,  last  of  the  Orleans  kings,  escaping  in 
his  turn  from  another  besieging  crowd,  and  the  establish- 
ment of  the  Second  Republic. 

During  the  Second  Empire  some  of  the  old  splendour 
returned,  and  it  was  here,  at  the  Tuileries,  that  Napo- 


122  A  WANDERER   IN   PARIS 

leon  III.  drew  up  many  of  his  plans  for  the  modern 
Paris  that  we  now  know ;  and  then  came  the  Prussian 
war  and  the  Third  Republic,  and  then  the  terrible  Com- 
munard insurrection  in  the  spring  of  1871,  in  which  the 
Tuileries  disappeared  for  ever.  Napoleon  III.,  as  I  have 
said,  assisted  by  Baron  Haussmann,  toiled  in  the  great 
pacific  task  of  renovating  Paris,  not  with  the  imagina- 
tive genius  of  his  uncle  but  with  an  undeniable  largeness 
and  sagacity.  He  it  was  who  added  so  greatly  to  the 
Louvre  —  all  that  part  in  fact  opposite  the  Place  du 
Palais  Royal  and  the  Magasins  du  Louvre  as  far  west 
as  the  Rue  de  Rohan.  A  large  portion  of  the  corre- 
sponding wing  on  the  river  side  was  his  too.  But  here 
is  a  list,  since  we  are  on  the  subject  of  modern  Paris  — 
which  began  with  the  great  Napoleon's  reconstruction 
of  the  ravages  (beneficial  for  the  most  part)  of  the  Re- 
volutionaries —  of  the  efforts  made  by  each  ruler  since 
that  epoch.  I  borrow  the  table  from  the  Marquis  de 
Rochegude. 

"  Napoleon  I.  —  Arc  de  Triomphe  de  Carrousel,  Ven- 
dome  Column,  Facade  du  Corps  Legislatif,  Commence- 
ment of  the  Arc  de  Triomphe  de  l'Etoile,  La  Bourse, 
the  Bridges  d'Austerlitz,  d'lena,  des  Arts,  de  la  Cite, 
several  Markets,  Quais  d'Orsay,  de  Billy,  du  Louvre, 
Montebello,  de  la  Tournelle ;  the  Eastern  and  Northern 
Cemeteries ;  numbering  the  houses  in  1806,  begun  with- 
out success  in  1728;  pavements  in  the  streets  and 
doing  away  with  the  streams  or  flowing  gutters  in  the 
middle  of  the  streets."     (How  like  Napoleon  to  get  the 


THE   BUILDERS  123 

houses  numbered  on  a  clear  system  !  Throughout  Paris 
the  odd  numbers  occupy  one  side  of  the  street  and  the 
even  the  other.  All  are  numbered  from  the  Seine  out- 
wards.) 

"The  Restoration.  —  Chapel  Expiatoire,  N.D.  de 
Bonne-Nouvelle,  N.D.  de  Lorette,  St.  Vincent  de  Paul; 
Bridges  of  the  Invalides,  of  the  Archbishopric,  d'Arcole; 
Canals  of  St.  Denis  and  St.  Martin ;  fifty-five  new  streets ; 
lighting  by  gas."  (It  was  about  1828  that  cabs  came 
in.  They  were  called  fiacres  from  the  circumstance  that 
their  originator  carried  on  his  business  at  the  sign  of 
the  Grand  St.  Fiacre.) 

"Louis  Philippe,  1830-1848.  —  Finished  the  Made- 
leine, Arc  de  Triomphe,  erected  the  Obelisk  (Place  de  la 
Concorde),  Column  of  July;  Bridges:  Louis-Philippe, 
Carrousel;  Palace  of  the  Quai  d'Orsay;  enlarged  the 
Palais  de  Justice;  restored  Notre  Dame  and  Sainte 
Chapelle;  Fountains:  Louvois,  Cuvier,  St.  Sulpice, 
Gaillon,  Moliere ;  opened  the  Museums  of  Cluny  and  the 
Thermes.     In  1843—1,100  streets. 

"Napoleon  III.,  1852-1870.  —  Embellished  Paris  — 
execution  of  Haussmann's  plans,  twenty-two  new  boule- 
vards; Streets  Lafayette,  Quatre-Septembre,deTurbigo; 
Bvd.  St.  Germain ;  Rues  desEcoles,de  Rivoli,  the  Champs- 
Elysees  Quarter,  the  Avenues  Friedland,  Hoche,  Kleber, 
the  Marceau,  de  LTmperatrice,  many  squares ;  a  part  of 
new  Louvre;  Churches  of  St.  Augustine,  The  Trinity, 
St.  Ambroise,  St.  Clotilde  (finishing  of);  Theatres, 
Chatelet,  Lyrique,  du  Vaudeville;   Tribunal  of  Com- 


124  A   WANDERER  IN  PARIS 

merce,  Hotel  Dieu,  Barracks,  Central  Markets  (also  the 
ceinture  railway) ;  finishing  of  the  Laribosiere  hospital, 
the  Fountain  of  St.  Michel,  the  Bridges  of  Solferino, 
L'Alma,  the  Pont  au  Change.  In  1861  — 1,667,841  in- 
habitants. 

"The  Commune.  —  Burning  of  the  Tuileries,  the 
Ministry  of  Finance,  the  Louvre  Library,  the  Hotel  de 
Ville,  the  Palace  of  the  Legion  of  Honour,  the  Palace 
of  the  Quai  d'Orsay,  the  Lyric,  the  Chatelet  and  the 
Porte  St.  Martin  theatres,  etc. 

"  The  Republic.  —  Reconstruction  of  the  buildings 
burnt  by  the  Commune;  Avenue  de  l'Opera,  the  Opera 
House ;  Streets :  Etienne  Marcel,  Reaumur,  Avenue  de  la 
Republique,  etc.  In  1892,  4,090  streets,  in  1902  there 
were  4,261  streets.  The  Exhibition  1878  left  the  Tro- 
cadero,  and  that  of  1889  the  Eiffel  Tower,  and  that  of 
1900  the  two  Palaces  of  the  Champs-Ely  sees  and  the 
bridge  Alexander  III."  (To  this  one  should  add  the 
Metro,  still  uncompleted,  which  has  the  advantage  over 
London's  Tubes  of  being  only  just  below  the  surface, 
so  that  no  lift  is  needed.) 

The  Arc  de  Triomphe  du  Carrousel,  at  the  east  end 
of  the  gardens,  is  a  mere  child  compared  with  the  Arc 
de  Triomphe  de  l'Etoile,  which  stands  there,  so  serenely 
and  magnificently,  at  the  end  of  the  vista  in  the  west, 
nearly  two  amazing  miles  away;  it  could  be  placed 
easily,  with  many  feet  to  spare,  under  that  greater 
monument's  arch  (as  Victor  Hugo's  coffin  was) ;  but  it 
is  more  beautiful.     Both  were  the  work  of  Napoleon, 


-,;,,,.... 


i    I 


TIME'S    REVENGES  AGAIN  125 

both  celebrate  the  victories  of  1805-06.  The  Carrousel 
is  surmounted  by  a  triumphal  car  and  four  horses ;  but 
here  again,  as  in  the  case  of  the  statue  of  Henri  IV. 
on  the  Pont  Neuf,  there  have  been  ironical  changes. 
Napoleon,  when  he  ordained  the  arch,  which  was  in- 
tended largely  to  reproduce  that  of  Severus  at  Rome, 
ravished  for  its  crowning  the  quadriga  from  St.  Mark's 
at  Venice:  those  glorious  gleaming  horses  over  the 
door.  That  was  as  it  should  be:  he  was  a  conqueror 
and  entitled  to  the  spoils  of  conquest.  But  after  his 
fall  came,  as  we  have  seen,  a  pedantic  disgorgement  of 
such  treasure;  the  golden  team  trotted  back  to  the 
Adriatic,  and  a  new  decoration  had  to  be  provided  for 
the  Carrousel.  Hence  the  present  one,  which  represents 
—  what  ?  It  is  almost  inconceivable ;  but,  Louis  XVIII. 
having  commissioned  it,  it  represents  the  triumph  no 
longer  of  Napoleon  but  of  the  Restoration !  Amusing 
to  remember  this  under  the  Third  Republic,  as  one 
looks  up  at  it  and  then  at  the  bas-reliefs  of  the  battle  of 
Austerlitz,  the  peace  of  Tilsit,  the  capitulation  of  Ulm, 
the  entry  into  Munich,  the  entry  into  Vienna  and  the 
peace  of  Pressburg.     Time's  revenges  indeed. 

Standing  under  the  Arc  du  Carrousel  one  makes  the 
interesting  but  disappointing  discovery  that  the  Arc  de 
Triomphe,  the  column  of  Luxor  in  the  Place  de  la 
Concorde,  the  fountain,  the  Arc  du  Carrousel,  the 
Gambetta  monument  and  the  Pavilion  Sully  of  the 
Louvre  do  not  form  a  straight  line,  as  by  all  the  laws  of 
French  architectural  symmetry  they  should  —  especially 


126  A  WANDERER  IN   PARIS 

here,  where  compasses  and  rulers  seem  to  have  been 
at  work  on  every  inch  of  the  ground,  and,  as  I  have 
ascertained,  general  opinion  considers  them  to  do.  All 
is  well,  from  the  west,  until  the  Arc  du  Carrousel ;  it  is 
the  Gambetta  and  the  Pavilion  Sully  that  throw  it  out. 

The  Gambetta !  This  monument  fascinates  me,  not 
by  its  beauty  nor  because  I  have  any  especial  reverence 
for  the  statesman;  but  simply  by  the  vigour  of  his 
clothes,  the  frock  coat  and  the  light  overcoat  of  the 
flamboyant  orator,  holding  forth  for  evermore  (or  until 
his  hour  strikes),  urgent  and  impetuous  and  French. 
To  the  frock  coat  in  sculpture  we  in  London  are  no 
strangers,  for  have  we  not  Parliament  Square  ?  but  our 
frock  coats  are  quiescent,  dead  even,  things  of  stone. 
Gambetta's,  on  the  contrary,  is  tempestuous  —  surely  the 
most  heroic  frock  coat  that  ever  emerged  from  the 
quarries  of  Carrara.  It  might  have  been  cut  by  the 
Great  Mel  himself. 

I  have  never  seen  a  computation  of  the  stone  and 
bronze  population  of  Paris,  but  the  statues  must  be 
thousands  strong.  A  Pied  Piper  leading  them  out  of 
the  city  would  be  worth  seeing,  although  I  for  one 
would  regret  their  loss.  Paris,  I  suppose,  was  Paris  no 
less  than  now  in  the  days  before  Gambetta  masqueraded 
as  a  Frock  Coated  Victory  almost  within  hail  of  the 
Winged  Victory  of  Samothrace;  but  Paris  certainly 
would  not  be  Paris  any  more  were  some  new  turn  of 
the  wheel  to  whisk  him  away  and  leave  the  Place  du 
Carrousel  forlorn  and  tepid.     The  loss  even  of  the  smug 


A    GREEN   SHADE  127 

figure  of  Jules  Simon,  just  outside  Durand's,  would  be 
something  like  a  bereavement.  I  once,  by  the  way, 
saw  this  statue  wearing,  after  a  snowstorm,  a  white  fur 
cap  and  cape  that  gave  him  a  character  —  something 
almost  Siberian  —  beyond  anything  dreamed  of  by  the 
sculptor. 

It  is  not  until  one  has  walked  through  the  gardens 
of  the  Tuileries  that  the  wealth  of  statuary  in  Paris 
begins  to  impress  the  mind.  For  there  must  be  almost 
as  many  statues  as  flowers.  They  shine  or  glimmer 
everywhere,  as  in  the  Athenian  groves  —  allegorical, 
symbolical,  mythological,  naked.  The  Luxembourg 
Gardens,  as  we  shall  see,  are  hardly  less  rich,  but  there 
one  finds  the  statues  of  real  persons.  Here,  as  becomes 
a  formal  garden  projected  by  a  king,  realism  is  excluded. 
Formal  it  is  in  the  extreme;  the  trees  are  sternly 
pollarded,  the  beds  are  mathematically  laid  out,  the 
paths  are  straight  and  not  to  be  deviated  from.  None 
the  less  on  a  hot  summer's  day  there  are  few  more  de- 
lightful spots,  with  the  placid  bonnes  sitting  so  solidly, 
as  only  French  women  can  sit,  over  their  needlework, 
and  their  charges  flitting  like  discreet  butterflies  all 
around  them ;  and  here  are  two  old  philosophers  —  an- 
other Bouvard  and  Pecuchet  —  discussing  some  prob- 
lem of  conduct  or  science,  and  there  a  family  party 
lunching  heartily,  without  shame.  Pleasant  groves, 
pleasant  people ! 

But  the  best  thing  in  the  Tuileries  is  M.  Pol.  Who 
is  M.  Pol  ?     Well,  he  may  not  be  the  most  famous  man 


128  A   WANDERER  IN  PARIS 

in  Paris,  but  he  is  certainly  the  most  engaging.  M.  Pol 
is  the  charmer  of  birds  —  "  Le  Charmeur  d'oiseaux  au 
Jardin  des  Tuileries,"  to  give  him  his  full  title.  There 
may  be  other  charmers  too  at  their  pretty  labours ;  but 
M.  Pol  comes  easily  first:  his  personality  is  so  attrac- 
tive, his  terms  of  intercourse  with  the  birds  so  intimate. 
His  oiseaux  are  chiefly  sparrows,  whom  he  knows  by 
name  —  La  Princesse,  Le  Loustic,  Garibaldi,  La  Ba- 
ronne,  l'Anglais,  and  so  forth.  They  come  one  by  one 
at  his  call,  and  he  pets  them  and  praises  them ;  talks 
pretty  ironical  talk;  uses  them  (particularly  the  little 
brown  l'Anglais)  for  sly  satirical  purposes,  for  there  are 
usually  a  few  English  spectators;  affects  to  admonish 
and  even  chastise  them,  shuffling  minatory  feet  with  all 
the  noise  but  none  of  the  illusion  of  seriousness;  and 
never  ceases  the  while  to  scatter  his  crumbs  or  seeds  of 
comfort.  It  is  a  very  charming  little  drama,  and  al- 
though carried  on  every  day,  and  for  some  hours  every 
day,  it  has  no  suggestion  of  routine ;  one  feels  that  the 
springs  of  it  are  sweetness  and  benevolence. 

He  is  a  typical  elderly  Latin,  this  M.  Pol,  a  little 
unmindful  as  to  his  dress,  a  little  inclined  to  shamble: 
humorous,  careless,  gentle.  When  I  first  saw  him, 
years  ago,  he  fed  his  birds  and  went  his  way :  but  he  now 
makes  a  little  money  by  it  too,  now  and  then  offering, 
very  reluctantly,  postcards  bearing  pictures  of  himself 
with  all  his  birds  about  him  and  a  distich  or  so  from 
his  pen.  For  M.  Pol  is  a  poet  in  words  as  well  as 
deeds :  "  De  nos  petits  oiseaux,"  he  writes  on  one  card : — 


M.   POL  129 

"  De  nos  petits  oiseaux,  jc  suis  le  bienfaiteur, 
Et  je  vais  tous  les  jours  leur  dormer  la  pature, 
Mais  suivant  un  contrat  dicte  par  nature 
Quand  je  donne  mon  pain,  ils  me  donnent  leur  coeur." 

I  think  this  true.  It  is  a  little  more  than  cupboard 
love  that  inspires  these  tiny  creatures,  or  they  would 
never  settle  on  M.  Pol's  hands  and  shoulders  as  they  do. 
He  has  charmed  the  pigeons  also;  but  here  he  admits 
to  a  lower  motive :  — 

"  Ils  savent,  les  malins,  que  leur  couvert  est  mis, 
C'est  en  faisant  du  bien  qu'on  se  fait  des  amis." 

It  amused  me  one  day  at  the  Louvre  to  fix  one  of 
these  photographs  in  the  frame  of  Giotto's  picture  of 
St.  Francis  (in  Salle  VII.),  one  of  the  scenes  of  which 
shows  him  preaching  to  the  birds:  thus  bridging  the 
gulf  between  the  centuries  and  making  for  the  moment 
the  Assisi  of  the  Saint  and  the  Paris  of  M.  Briand  one. 

London  has  its  noticeable  lovers  of  animals  too  —  you 
may  see  in  St.  Paul's  churchyard  in  the  dinner  hour 
isolated  figures  surrounded  and  covered  by  pigeons :  the 
British  Museum  courtyard  also  knows  one  or  two,  and 
the  Guildhall:  quite  like  Venice,  both  of  them,  save 
that  no  one  is  excited  about  it;  while  in  St.  James's 
Square  may  be  seen  at  all  hours  of  every  day  the 
mysterious  cat  woman  with  her  pensioners  all  about 
her  on  their  little  mats.  Every  city  has  these  humor- 
ists —  shall  I  say  ?  using  the  word  as  it  was  wont  to  be 
used  long  ago.  But  M.  Pol  —  M.  Pol  stands  alone.  It 
is  not  merely  that  he  charms  the  birds  but  that  he  is 


130  A  WANDERER   IN   PARIS 

so  charming  with  them.  The  pigeon  feeders  of  London 
whom  I  have  watched  bring  their  maize,  distribute  it  and 
go.  M.  Pol  is  more  of  a  St.  Francis  than  that:  as  I 
have  shown,  he  converses,  jokes  and  exchanges  moods 
with  his  friends. 

Although  he  is  acquainted  with  pigeons,  his  real  friends 
are  the  gamins  of  the  air,  the  sparrows,  true  Parisians, 
who  have  the  best  news.  Pigeons,  one  can  conceive, 
pick  up  a  fact  here  and  there,  but  it  would  have  a 
foreign  or  provincial  flavour.  Now  if  there  is  one  thing 
which  bores  a  true  Parisian  it  is  talk  of  what  is  happen- 
ing outside  Paris.  The  Parisian's  horizons  do  not  extend 
beyond  his  city.  The  sun  for  him  rises  out  of  the  Bois 
de  Vincennes,  and  evening  comes  because  it  has  sunk  into 
the  Bois  de  Boulogne.  Hence  M.  Pol's  wisdom  in  choos- 
ing the  sparrow  for  his  companion,  his  oiseau  intime. 

So  far  had  I  written  when  I  chanced  to  walk  into 
London  by  way  of  Hyde  Park,  and  there,  just  by  the 
Achilles  statue,  was  a  charming  gentleman  in  a  tall 
white  hat  whistling  a  low  whistle  to  a  little  band  of 
sparrows  who  followed  him  and  surrounded  him  and 
fluttered  up,  one  by  one,  to  his  hand.  We  talked  a 
little  together,  and  he  told  me  that  the  birds  never  for- 
get him,  though  he  is  absent  for  eight  months  each  year. 
His  whistle  brings  them  at  once.  So  London  is  all  right 
after  all.  And  I  have  been  told  delightful  things  about 
the  friends  of  the  grey  squirrels  in  Central  Park;  so 
New  York  perhaps  is  all  right  too. 

The  Round  Pond  of  Paris  is  at  the  Tuileries  —  not  so 


WE   LEAVE   THE   TUILERIES  131 

vast  as  the  mare  clausum  of  Kensington  Gardens,  but 
capable  of  accommodating  many  argosies.  Leaving  this 
Pond  behind  us  and  making  for  the  Place  de  la  Concorde, 
we  have  on  the  right  the  remains  of  a  monastery  of  the 
Cistercians,  one  of  the  many  religious  houses  which  stood 
all  about  the  north  of  the  Gardens  at  the  time  of  the 
Revolution  and  were  first  discredited  and  emptied  by 
the  votaries  of  Reason  and  then  swept  away  by  Napoleon 
when  he  made  the  Rue  de  Rivoli.  The  building  on 
the  left  is  the  Orangery.  It  is  in  this  part  that  the 
temporary  pavilions  are  erected  for  the  banquets  to  pro- 
vincial mayors  and  such  pleasant  ceremonies,  while  in 
the  summer  some  little  exhibition  is  usually  in  progress. 
But  what  is  that  sound  ?  The  beating  of  a  drum. 
We  must  hasten  to  the  gates,  for  that  means  closing- 
time. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE    PLACE    DE   LA    CONCORDE THE    CHAMPS- 

ELYSEES    AND    THE    INVALIDES 

A  Dangerous  Crossing  —  An  Ill-omened  Place — Louis  the  XVII.  in 
Prosperity  and  Adversity  —  January  21st,  1793  —  The  End  of 
Robespierre  —  The  Luxor  Column  —  The  Congress  of  Wheels  — ■ 
England  and  France  —  The  Champs-Elysees  —  The  Pare  Monceau 
—  A  Terrestrial  Paradise  —  Oriental  Museums  —  The  Etoile's 
Tributaries  —  The  Arc  de  Triomphe  —  The  Avenue  du  Bois  de 
Boulogne  —  A  Vast  Pleasure-ground  —  Happy  Sundays  —  Long- 
champ  —  The  Pari-mutuel  —  Spotting  a  Winner  —  Two  Crowded 
Corners  —  The  Rival  Salons  —  The  Palais  des  Beaux-Arts  — 
Dutch  Masters  —  Modern  French  Painters  —  Superb  Drawing  — 
Fairies  among  the  Statues  —  The  Pont  d'Alexandre  III.  —  The 
Fairs  of  Paris  —  A  Vast  Alms-house  —  A  Model  Museum  —  Relics 
of  Napoleon  —  The  Second  Funeral  of  Napoleon  —  The  Tomb 
of  Napoleon. 

THE  Place  de  la  Concorde  by  day  is  vast  rather 
than  beautiful,  and  by  night  it  is  a  congress  of 
lamps.  By  both  it  is  dangerous  and  in  bad  weather  as 
exposed  as  the  open  sea.  But  it  is  sacred  ground  and 
Paris  is  unthinkable  without  it.  The  interest  of  the 
Place  is  summed  up  in  the  Luxor  column,  which  may 
perhaps  be  said  to  mark  what  is  perhaps  the  most 
critical  site  in  modern  history;  for  where  the  obelisk 
now  stands  stood  not  so  very  long  ago  the  guillotine. 
The  Place's  name  has  been  Concorde  only  since  1830. 
132 


FEU  DE  TRAGEDIE  133 

It  began  in  1763,  when  a  bronze  statue  of  Louis  XV. 
on  horseback  was  erected  there,  surrounded  by  emble- 
matic figures,  from  the  chisel  of  Pigalle,  of  Prudence, 
Justice,  Force  and  Peace.  Hence  the  characteristic 
French  epigram :  — 

"O  la  belle  statue,  O  le  beau  pedestal! 
Les  Virtues  sont  a  pied,  le  Vice  est  a  cheval.'' 

Before  this  time  the  Place  had  been  an  open  and  un- 
cultivated space;  it  was  now  enclosed,  surrounded  with 
fosses,  made  trim,  and  called  La  Place  Louis  Quinze. 
In  1770,  however,  came  tragedy;  for  on  the  occasion  of 
the  marriage  of  the  Dauphin,  afterwards  the  luckless 
Louis  XVI.,  with  the  equally  luckless  Marie  Antoinette, 
a  display  of  fireworks  was  given,  during  which  one  of 
the  rockets  (as  one  always  dreads  at  every  display) 
declined  the  sky  and  rushed  horizontally  into  the  crowd, 
and  in  the  resulting  stampede  thousands  of  persons  fell 
into  the  ditches,  twelve  hundred  being  killed  outright 
and  two  thousand  injured. 

Twenty-two  years  later,  kings  having  suddenly  be- 
come cheap,  the  National  Convention  ordered  the  statue 
of  Louis  XV.  to  be  melted  down  and  recast  into  cannon, 
a  clay  figure  of  Liberte  to  be  set  up  in  its  stead,  and 
the  name  to  be  changed  to  the  Place  de  la  Revolution. 
This  was  done,  and  a  little  later  the  guillotine  was  erected 
a  few  yards  west  of  the  spot  where  the  Luxor  column 
now  stands,  primarily  for  the  removal  of  the  head  of 
Louis  XVI.,  in  whose  honour  those  unfortunate  fireworks 
had  been  ignited.     The  day  was  January  21st,  1793. 


134  A  WANDERER  IN  PARIS 

"King  Louis,"  says  Carlyle,  "slept  sound,  till  five 
in  the  morning,  when  Clery,  as  he  had  been  ordered, 
awoke  him.  Clery  dressed  his  hair:  while  this  went 
forward,  Louis  took  a  ring  from  his  watch,  and  kept 
trying  it  on  his  finger;  it  was  his  wedding-ring,  which 
he  is  now  to  return  to  the  Queen  as  a  mute  farewell. 
At  half-past  six,  he  took  the  Sacrament ;  and  continued 
in  devotion,  and  conference  with  Abbe  Edgeworth.  He 
will  not  see  his  Family :  it  were  too  hard  to  bear. 

"At  eight,  the  Municipals  enter:  the  King  gives 
them  his  Will,  and  messages  and  effects;  which  they, 
at  first,  brutally  refuse  to  take  charge  of :  he  gives  them 
a  roll  of  gold  pieces,  a  hundred  and  twenty-five  louis; 
these  are  to  be  returned  to  Malesherbes,  who  had  lent 
them.  At  nine,  Santerre  says  the  hour  is  come.  The 
King  begs  yet  to  retire  for  three  minutes.  At  the  end 
of  three  minutes,  Santerre  again  says  the  hour  is  come. 
'Stamping  on  the  ground  with  his  right-foot,  Louis 
answers:  " Par tons,  Let  us  go."'  —  How  the  rolling 
of  those  drums  comes  in,  through  the  Temple  bastions 
and  bulwarks,  on  the  heart  of  a  queenly  wife ;  soon  to 
be  a  widow  !  He  is  gone,  then,  and  has  not  seen  us  ? 
A  Queen  weeps  bitterly;  a  King's  Sister  and  Children. 
Over  all  these  Four  does  Death  also  hover:  all  shall 
perish  miserably  save  one ;  she,  as  Duchesse  d'Angou- 
leme,  will  live,  —  not  happily. 

"At  the  Temple  Gate  were  some  faint  cries,  perhaps 
from  voices  of  pitiful  women :  '  Grace  !  Grace  ! '  Through 
the  rest  of  the  streets  there  is  silence  as  of  the  grave. 


JANUARY   21st,    1793  135 

No  man  not  armed  is  allowed  to  be  there:  the  armed, 
did  any  even  pity,  dare  not  express  it,  each  man  over- 
awed by  all  his  neighbours.  All  windows  are  down, 
none  seen  looking  through  them.  All  shops  are  shut. 
No  wheel-carriage  rolls,  this  morning,  in  these  streets  but 
one  only.  Eighty  thousand  armed  men  stand  ranked, 
like  armed  statues  of  men ;  cannons  bristle,  cannoneers 
with  match  burning,  but  no  word  or  movement:  it 
is  as  a  city  enchanted  into  silence  and  stone :  one  car- 
riage with  its  escort,  slowly  rumbling,  is  the  only  sound. 
Louis  reads,  in  his  Book  of  Devotion,  the  Prayers  of 
the  Dying:  clatter  of  this  death-march  falls  sharp  on 
the  ear,  in  the  great  silence ;  but  the  thought  would  fain 
struggle  heavenward,  and  forget  the  Earth. 

"As  the  clocks  strike  ten,  behold  the  Place  de  la 
Revolution,  once  Place  de  Louis  Quinze :  the  Guillotine, 
mounted  near  the  old  Pedestal  where  once  stood  the 
Statue  of  that  Louis !  Far  round,  all  bristles  with 
cannons  and  armed  men:  spectators  crowding  in  the 
rear;  D'Orleans  Egalite  there  in  cabriolet.  Swift  mes- 
sengers, hoquetons,  speed  to  the  Townhall,  every  three 
minutes :  near  by  is  the  Convention  sitting,  —  vengeful 
for  Lepelletier.  Heedless  of  all,  Louis  reads  his  Prayers 
of  the  Dying;  not  till  five  minutes  yet  has  he  finished ; 
then  the  Carriage  opens.  What  temper  he  is  in  ?  Ten 
different  witnesses  will  give  ten  different  accounts  of  it. 
He  is  in  the  collision  of  all  tempers ;  arrived  now  at  the 
black  Maelstrom  and  descent  of  Death :  in  sorrow,  in 
indignation,   in  resignation  struggling  to  be  resigned. 


136  A   WANDERER   IN  PARIS 

'Take  care  of  M.  Edgeworth,'  he  straitly  charges  the 
Lieutenant  who  is  sitting  with  them:  then  they  two 
descend. 

"  The  drums  are  beating :  '  Taisez-vous,  Silence  ! ' 
he  cries  'in  a  terrible  voice,  (Tune  voix  terrible.'  He 
mounts  the  scaffold,  not  without  delay;  he  is  in  puce 
coat,  breeches  of  grey,  white  stockings.  He  strips  off 
the  coat ;  stands  disclosed  in  a  sleeve-waistcoat  of  white 
flannel.  The  Executioners  approach  to  bind  him:  he 
spurns,  resists;  Abbe  Edgeworth  has  to  remind  him 
how  the  Saviour,  in  whom  men  trust,  submitted  to  be 
bound.  His  hands  are  tied,  his  head  bare,  the  fatal 
moment  is  come.  He  advances  to  the  edge  of  the 
Scaffold,  'his  face  very  red,'  and  says:  'Frenchmen,  I 
die  innocent :  it  is  from  the  Scaffold  and  near  appearing 
before  God  that  I  tell  you  so.     I  pardon  my  enemies: 

I  desire  that  France '     A  General  on  horseback, 

Santerre  or  another,  prances  out,  with  uplifted  hand: 
'Tambours!'  The  drums  drown  the  voice.  'Execu- 
tioners, do  your  duty  ! '  The  Executioners,  desperate 
lest  themselves  be  murdered  (for  Santerre  and  his  Armed 
Ranks  will  strike,  if  they  do  not),  seize  the  hapless 
Louis :  six  of  them  desperate,  him  singly  desperate, 
struggling  there;  and  bind  him  to  their  plank.  Abbe 
Edgeworth,  stooping,  bespeaks  him :  '  Son  of  Saint 
Louis,  ascend  to  Heaven.'  The  Axe  clanks  down;  a 
King's  life  is  shorn  away.  It  is  Monday  the  21st  of 
January,  1793.  He  was  aged  Thirty-eight  years,  four 
months  and  twenty-eight  days. 


fUHB  4K. 

^             ^ 

■ 

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*                         .r 

VIEUX   HOMME   ET   ENFANT 

GHIRLANDAIO 
(Z>«7'>"(>) 


HEADSMAN   SAMSON  137 

"  Executioner  Samson  shows  the  Head :  fierce  shout 
of  Vive  la  Republique  rises,  and  swells ;  caps  raised  on 
bayonets,  hats  waving ;  students  of  the  College  of  Four 
Nations  take  it  up,  on  the  far  Quais ;  fling  it  over  Paris. 
D'Orleans  drives  off  in  his  cabriolet:  the  Townhall 
Councillors  rub  their  hands,  saying,  'It  is  done,  It  is 
done.'  There  is  dipping  of  handkerchiefs,  of  pike- 
points  in  the  blood.  Headsman  Samson,  though  he 
afterwards  denied  it,  sells  locks  of  the  hair :  fractions  of 
the  puce  coat  are  long  after  worn  in  rings.  —  And  so,  in 
some  half-hour  it  is  done;  and  the  multitude  has  all 
departed.  Pastry-cooks,  coffee-sellers,  milkmen  sing 
out  their  trivial  quotidian  cries :  the  world  wags  on,  as 
if  this  were  a  common  day.  In  the  coffee-houses  that 
evening,  says  Prudhomme,  Patriot  shook  hands  with 
Patriot  in  a  more  cordial  manner  than  usual.  Not  till 
some  days  after,  according  to  Mercier,  did  public  men 
see  what  a  grave  thing  it  was." 

The  guillotine  for  more  ordinary  purposes  worked  in 
the  Place  du  Carrousel,  not  far  from  Gambetta's  statue 
to-day;  but  from  May,  1793,  until  June,  1794,  it  was 
back  in  the  Place  de  la  Concorde  (then  Place  de  la 
Revolution)  again,  accounting  during  that  time  for  no 
fewer  than  1,235  offenders,  including  Charlotte  Corday, 
Madame  Roland  and  Marie  Antoinette.  The  blood 
flowed  daily,  while  the  tricoteuses  looked  on  over  their 
knitting  and  the  mob  howled. 

Another  removal,  to  the  Place  de  la  Bastille,  and  then 
on  28th  July,  1794,  the  engine  of  justice  or  vengeance 


138  A   WANDERER   IN   PARIS 

was  back  again  to  end  a  life  and  the  Reign  of  Terror 
in  one  blow.  What  life  ?  But  listen :  "  Robespierre 
lay  in  an  anteroom  of  the  Convention  Hall,  while  his 
Prison-escort  was  getting  ready ;  the  mangled  jaw  bound 
up  rudely  with  bloody  linen:  a  spectacle  to  men.  He 
lies  stretched  on  a  table,  a  deal-box  his  pillow ;  the 
sheath  of  the  pistol  is  still  clenched  convulsively  in  his 
hand.  Men  bully  him,  insult  him:  his  eyes  still  indicate 
intelligence ;  he  speaks  no  word.  '  He  had  on  the  sky- 
blue  coat  he  had  got  made  for  the  Feast  of  the  Eire 
Supreme'  —  O  Reader,  can  thy  hard  heart  hold  out 
against  that  ?  His  trousers  were  nankeen ;  the  stockings 
had  fallen  down  over  the  ankles.  He  spake  no  word 
more  in  this  world. 

"  And  so,  at  six  in  the  morning,  a  victorious  Convention 
adjourns.  Report  flies  over  Paris  as  on  golden  wings ; 
penetrates  the  Prisons;  irradiates  the  faces  of  those 
that  were  ready  to  perish :  turnkeys  and  moutons,  fallen 
from  their  high  estate,  look  mute  and  blue.  It  is  the 
28th  day  of  July,  called  10th  of  Thermidor,  year  1794. 

"Fouquier  had  but  to  identify;  his  Prisoners  being 
already  Out  of  Law.  At  four  in  the  afternoon,  never 
before  were  the  streets  of  Paris  seen  so  crowded.  From 
the  Palais  de  Justice  to  the  Place  de  la  Revolution, 
for  thither  again  go  the  Tumbrils  this  time,  it  is  one 
dense  stirring  mass ;  all  windows  crammed ;  the  very 
roofs  and  ridge-tiles  budding  forth  human  Curiosity, 
in  strange  gladness.  The  Death-tumbrils,  with  their 
motley  Batch    of   Outlaws,  some  twenty-three   or   so, 


ROBESPIERRE'S  TURN  139 

from  Maximilien  to  Mayor  Fleuriot  and  Simon  the 
Cordwainer,  roll  on.  All  eyes  are  on  Robespierre's 
Tumbril,  where  he,  his  jaw  bound  in  dirty  linen,  with  his 
half-dead  Brother  and  half-dead  Henriot,  lie  shattered ; 
their  'seventeen  hours'  of  agony  about  to  end.  The 
Gendarmes  point  their  swords  at  him,  to  show  the 
people  which  is  he.  A  woman  springs  on  the  Tumbril ; 
clutching  the  side  of  it  with  one  hand,  waving  the  other 
Sibyl-like ;  and  exclaims :  '  The  death  of  thee  gladdens 
my  very  heart,  rrtenivre  de  joie';  Robespierre  opened 
his  eyes;  ' Scelerat,  go  down  to  Hell,  with  the  curses 
of  all  wives  and  mothers  ! '  —  At  the  foot  of  the  scaffold, 
they  stretched  him  on  the  ground  till  his  turn  came. 
Lifted  aloft,  his  eyes  again  opened ;  caught  the  bloody 
axe.  Samson  wrenched  the  coat  off  him ;  wrenched  the 
dirty  linen  from  his  jaw :  the  jaw  fell  powerless,  there 
burst  from  him  a  cry ;  —  hideous  to  hear  and  see.  Sam- 
son, thou  canst  not  be  too  quick  ! 

"  Samson's  work  done,  there  bursts  forth  shout  on 
shout  of  applause.  Shout,  which  prolongs  itself  not 
only  over  Paris,  but  over  France,  but  over  Europe,  and 
down  to  this  generation.  Deservedly,  and  also  unde- 
servedly. O  unhappiest  Advocate  of  Arras,  wert  thou 
worse  than  other  Advocates  ?  Stricter  man,  according 
to  his  Formula,  to  his  Credo  and  his  Cant,  of  probities, 
benevolences,  pleasures-of-virtue,  and  suchlike,  lived  not 
in  that  age.  A  man  fitted,  in  some  luckier  settled  age, 
to  have  become  one  of  those  incorruptible  barren  Pat- 
tern-Figures, and  have  had  marble-tablets  and  funeral- 


140  A   WANDERER   IN   PARIS 

sermons.  His  poor  landlord,  the  Cabinet-maker  in  the 
Rue  Saint-Honore,  loved  him ;  his  Brother  died  for  him. 
May  God  be  merciful  to  him  and  to  us ! 
"This  is  the  end  of  the  Reign  of  Terror." 
In  1799  the  Place  won  its  name  Concorde.  The 
next  untoward  sight  that  it  was  to  see  was  Prussian  and 
Russian  soldiers  encamping  there  in  1814  and  1815,  and 
in  1815  the  British.  By  this  time  it  had  been  renamed 
Place  Louis  Quinze,  which  in  1826  was  changed  to  Place 
Louis  Seize,  and  a  project  was  afoot  for  raising  a  monu- 
ment to  that  monarch's  memory  on  the  spot  where  he 
fell.  But  the  Revolution  of  1830  intervened,  and  "  Con- 
corde" resumed  its  sway,  and  in  1836.  Louis-Philippe, 
the  new  king  (whose  father,  Philippe  Egalite,  had 
perished  on  the  guillotine  here),  erected  the  Luxor 
column,  which  had  been  given  to  him  by  Mohammed 
Ali,  and  had  once  stood  before  the  great  temple  of 
Thebes  commemorating  on  its  sides  the  achievements 
of  Rameses  II.  Since  then  certain  symbolic  statues  of 
the  great  French  cities  (including  unhappy  Strassburg) 
have  been  set  up,  and  the  Place  is  a  model  of  symmetry, 
and  at  the  time  that  I  write  (1909)  a  great  part  of  it 
is  enclosed  within  hoardings  for  I  know  not  what  pur- 
pose, but  I  hope  a  subway  for  the  saving  of  the  lives  of 
pedestrians,  for  it  must  be  the  most  perilous  crossing  in 
the  world.  One  has  but  to  set  foot  in  the  roadway  and 
straightway  motor-cars  and  cabs  spring  out  of  the  earth 
and  converge  upon  one  from  every  point  of  the  compass, 
in  the  amazing  French  way.     Concorde,  indeed  ! 


U      - 

fe  1 

ui     .- 


*/*-<:. 


THE   ELYSIAN   FIELDS  141 

If  the  Place  de  la  Concorde  may  be  called  at  night  a 
congress  of  lamps,  the  Champs-Elysees  in  the  afternoon 
may  be  said  to  be  a  congress  of  wheels.  Wheels  in  such 
numbers  and  revolving  at  such  a  pace  are  never  seen  in 
England,  not  even  on  the  Epsom  road  on  Derby  Day. 
For  there  is  no  speed  limit  for  the  French  motor-car. 
Nor  have  we  in  England  anything  like  this  superb 
roadway,  so  wide  and  open,  climbing  so  confidently  to 
the  Arc  de  Triomphe,  with  its  groves  on  either  side  at 
the  foot,  and  the  prosperous  white  mansions  afterwards. 
It  is  not  our  way.  We  English,  with  our  ambition  to 
conquer  and  administer  the  world,  have  neglected  our 
own  home;  the  French,  with  no  ambition  any  longer 
to  wander  beyond  their  own  borders,  have  made  their 
home  beautiful.  The  energy  which  we  as  a  nation  put 
into  greater  Britain,  they  have  put  into  buildings,  into 
statues,  into  roads.  The  result  is  that  we  have  the 
Transvaal,  Australia,  New  Zealand,  Canada  and  India, 
but  it  is  the  French,  foregoing  such  possessions  and  all 
their  anxieties,  who  have  the  Champs-Elysees. 

The  Champs-Elysees  were  planned  and  laid  out  by 
Marie  de  Medicis  in  1616,  and  the  Cours  la  Reine,  her 
triple  avenue  of  trees,  still  exists;  but  Napoleon  is  the 
father  of  the  scheme  which  culminates  so  magnificently 
in  the  Arc  de  Triomphe.  The  particular  children's 
paradise  of  Paris  is  in  the  gardens  between  the  main 
road  and  the  Elysee,  where  they  bowl  their  hoops  and 
spin  their  Diabolo  spools,  and  ride  on  the  horses  of 
minute  round-abouts  turned   by  hand,  and    watch  the 


142  A  WANDERER  IN   PARIS 

marionettes,  with  the  tired  eyes  of  Alphonse  Daudet,  who 
sits  forever,  close  by,  in  very  white  stone,  watching  them. 

Here  also  are  the  open-air  cafes,  the  Ambassadeurs 
and  the  Alcazar,  while  on  the  other,  the  river,  side  are 
the  Jardin  de  Paris,  a  curiously  Lutetian  haunt,  and  Le- 
doyen's,  one  of  the  pleasantest  of  restaurants  in  summer. 

Just  above  this  point  we  ought  to  turn  to  the  left  to 
visit  the  Petit  Palais  and  cross  the  Pont  d'Alexandre 
III.,  but  since  we  are  on  the  way  let  us  now  climb  to 
the  Etoile,  and  on  to  the  Bois,  first,  however,  just  turn- 
ing off  the  Ronde  Point  for  a  moment  to  look  at  No.  3 
Avenue  Matignon,  where  Heine  (beside  whose  grave  we 
are  to  stand  on  Montmartre)  suffered  and  died. 

The  Place  de  l'Etoile  might  be  called  a  kind  of  gilt- 
edged  Seven  Dials,  since  so  many  roads  lead  from  it. 
Aristocratic  Paris  comes  to  a  head  here.  On  the  right 
runs  from  it  the  Avenue  de  Friedland,  leading  to  the 
Boulevard  Haussmann,  which  meets  with  so  inglorious 
an  end  at  the  Rue  Taitbout,  but  is  perhaps  to  be  cut 
through  to  join  the  Boulevard  Montmartre.  Next  on 
the  right  is  the  Avenue  Hoche,  running  directly  into 
the  Pare  Monceau,  a  terrestrial  paradise  to  which  good 
mondaines  certainly  go  when  they  die.  A  little  apparte- 
ment  overlooking  the  Pare  Monceau  —  there  is  tangible 
heaven,  if  you  like  ! 

The  Pare  itself  is  small  but  perfect,  elegant  and  ex- 
pensive and  verdant.  The  children  (one  feels)  are  all 
titled,  the  bonnes  are  visibly  miracles  of  distinction  and 
the  babies  masses  of  point  lace;  the  ladies  on  the  chairs 


THE   PARK   DE   LUXE  143 

must  be  Comtesses  or  Baronnes,  and  the  air  is  carefully 
scented.  That  is  the  Pare  Monceau.  It  needed  but  one 
detail  to  make  it  complete,  and  that  was  supplied  a  few 
years  ago:  a  statue  of  Guy  de  Maupassant,  consisting 
of  a  block  of  the  most  radiant  marble  to  be  procured, 
with  the  novelist  as  its  apex,  and  at  the  base  a  Pari- 
sienne  reading  one  of  his  stories.  Other  statues  there 
are :  of  Ambroise  Thomas  the  composer,  to  whom  Mignon 
offers  a  floral  tribute;  of  Pailleron  the  dramatist,  at- 
tended by  an  actress ;  of  Gounod  surrounded  by  Mar- 
guerite, Juliet,  Sappho  and  a  little  Love,  and  of  Chopin 
seated  at  the  piano,  with  the  figures  of  Night  and 
Harmony  to  inspire  him.  These  are  only  a  few;  but 
they  are  typical.  Every  statue  in  the  Pare  has  a 
damsel  or  two,  according  to  his  desire.  It  is  the  mode. 
There  is  also  a  minute  lake,  on  the  edge  of  which  have 
been  set  up  a  number  of  Corinthian  columns ;  and  before 
you  have  been  seated  a  minute,  an  old  woman  appears 
from  nowhere  and  demands  twopence  for  what  she 
poetically  calls  an  armchair,  the  extra  penny  being 
added  as  a  compliment  to  the  two  uncomfortable  wires 
at  the  side  which  you  had  been  wishing  you  could  break 
off.  Such  is  the  Pare  Monceau,  the  like  of  which  exists 
not  in  London:  the  ideal  pleasaunce  of  the  wealthy. 
Through  it,  I  might  add,  you  may  drive;  but  only  at 
a  walking  pace  —  au  pas.  If  the  horse  were  to  trot  he 
might  shake  some  petals  off. 

At  the  western  gate  is  the  Musee  Cernuschi,  contain- 
ing a  collection  of  oriental  pottery  and  bronzes.      I  am 


144  A   WANDERER   IN   PARIS 

no  connoisseur  of  these  beautiful  things,  but  I  advise 
all  readers  of  this  book  to  visit  both  this  museum  and 
the  Guimet  in  the  Place  d'lena,  which  is  a  treasury  of 
Japanese  and  Chinese  art. 

Returning  to  the  Etoile,  the  next  avenue  is  the  Avenue 
de  Wagram,  running  north  to  the  Porte  d'Asnieres, 
while  that  which  continues  the  Avenue  des  Champs- 
Elysees  in  a  straight  line  west  by  north  is  the  Avenue 
de  la  Grande  Armee,  running  to  the  Porte  Maillot  and 
Neuilly.  On  the  left  the  first  avenue  is  the  Avenue  de 
Marceau,  which  leads  to  the  Place  de  l'Alma;  the  next 
the  Avenue  d'lena,  leading  to  the  Place  d'lena;  the 
next,  the  Avenue  de  Kleber,  running  straight  to  the  Tro- 
cadero  (into  which  I  have  never  penetrated)  and  Passy, 
where  the  English  live;  the  next,  the  Avenue  Victor 
Hugo,  which  never  stops ;  and  finally  the  Avenue  du  Bois 
de  Boulogne,  the  most  beautiful  roadway  in  new  Paris, 
along  which  we  shall  fare  when  we  have  examined  the 
Arc  de  Triomphe. 

This  trophy  of  success  was  begun,  as  I  have  said,  by 
Napoleon  to  celebrate  the  victories  of  1805  and  1806; 
Louis-Philippe  finished  it  in  1836.  Why  Louis  XVIII. 
did  not  destroy  it  or  complete  it  as  a  further  memorial 
of  the  Restoration,  I  cannot  say.  Napoleon's  original 
idea  was,  however,  tampered  with  by  his  successors,  who 
allowed  a  bas-relief  representing  the  Blessings  of  Peace 
in  1815  to  be  included.  The  sculptures  are  otherwise 
wholly  devoted  to  the  glorification  of  war,  Napoleon 
and  the  French  army;    but  they  are  not  to  be   studied 


THE   PERFECT  ROAD  145 

without  serious  inconvenience.  My  advice  to  the  con- 
scientious student  would  be  to  buy  photographs  or 
picture  postcards,  and  examine  them  at  home :  the  Arc 
de  Triomphe  is  too  great  and  splendid  for  such  detail. 
From  the  top  one  can  see  all  round  Paris,  and  though 
one  cannot  look  down  on  it  all  as  from  the  Eiffel  Tower, 
or  see,  beneath  one,  such  an  interesting  district  as  from 
Notre  Dame,  it  is  yet  a  wonderfully  interesting  view. 

The  Avenue  du  Bois  de  Boulogne  has  the  finest  road 
in  what  is,  so  to  speak,  the  Marais  of  the  present  day ; 
that  is  to  say,  in  the  modern  quarter  of  the  aristocratic 
and  wealthy.  We  have  seen  riches  and  rank  moving 
from  the  Marais  to  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain  and  from 
the  Faubourg  St.  Germain  to  the  Faubourg  St.  Honore, 
and  now  we  find  them  here,  and  here  they  seem  likely 
to  remain.  And  indeed  to  move  farther  would  be 
foolish,  for  surely  there  never  was,  and  could  not  be,  a 
more  beautiful  city  site  than  this  anywhere  in  the  world 
—  with  its  wide  cool  lawns  on  either  side,  and  its  gay 
colouring,  and  the  Bois  so  near.  Here  too,  on  the  heads 
of  the  comfortable  complacent  bonnes,  are  the  most 
radiant  caps  you  ever  saw. 

The  Bois  de  Boulogne,  which  takes  its  name  from  the 
little  town  of  Boulogne  to  the  south  of  it,  now  a  suburb 
of  Paris,  began  its  life  as  a  Paris  park  in  the  eighteen- 
fifties.  Before  that  it  was  a  forest  of  great  trees,  which 
indeed  remained  until  the  Franco-Prussian  war,  when 
they  were  cut  down  in  order  that  they  might  not  give 
cover  to  the  enemy.     That  is  why  the  present  groves 


146  A  WANDERER  IN  PARIS 

are  all  of  a  size.  I  cannot  describe  the  Bois  better  than 
by  saying  that  it  is  as  if  Hyde  Park,  Sandown  Park, 
Kempton  Park  and  Epping  Forest  were  all  thrown 
together  between  Shepherd's  Bush,  Acton  and  the  river. 
London  would  then  have  something  like  the  Bois ;  and 
yet  it  would  not  be  like  the  Bois  at  all,  because  it  would 
rapidly  become  a  desert  of  newspapers  and  empty  bottles, 
whereas,  although  in  the  summer  populous  with  picnic 
parties,  the  Bois  is  always  clean  and  fresh. 

There  are  several  gates  to  the  Bois,  but  the  principal 
ones  are  the  Porte  Maillot  at  the  end  of  the  Avenue  de 
la  Grande  Armee,  and  the  Porte  Dauphine  at  the  end 
of  the  Avenue  du  Bois  de  Boulogne,  and  it  is  through 
the  latter  that  the  thousands  of  vehicles  pass  on  their 
way  to  the  races  on  happy  Sundays  in  the  spring  and 
autumn.  Most  English  people  visiting  the  Bois  merely 
drive  to  the  races  and  back  again;  it  is  quite  the  ex- 
ception to  find  anyone  who  really  knows  the  Bois  — 
who  has  walked  round  the  two  lakes,  Lac  Inferieur, 
which  feeds  the  cascade  under  which  one  may  walk  (as 
at  Niagara),  and  Lac  Superieur;  who  has  seen  a  play 
in  the  Theatre  de  Verdure,  or  an  exhibition  at  Bagatelle, 
the  villa  of  the  late  Sir  Richard  Wallace,  who  gave  the 
Champs-Elysees  its  drinking  fountains  and  London  the 
Wallace  Collection.  Bagatelle  now  belongs  to  Paris. 
Every  English  visitor,  however,  remembers  the  stone 
animals,  dogs  and  deer,  in  the  lawn  of  the  Villa  de 
Longchamp  on  the  right  as  one  approaches  the  race- 
course, and  the  windmill  on  the  left,  one  of  the  several 


VENUS  ET  L'AMOUR 

REMBRANDT 

{Louvre) 


THE   PARI-MUTUEL  147 

inoperative  windmills  of  Paris,  which  marks  the  site  of 
the  old  Abbey  of  Longchamp,  founded  by  Isabella,  the 
sister  of  Saint  Louis. 

The  Bois  has  two  restaurants  of  the  highest  quality 
and  price  —  Armenonville,  close  to  the  Porte  Maillot,  a 
favourite  dining-place  when  the  Fete  de  Neuilly  is  in 
progress,  in  the  summer,  and  the  Pre  Catelan,  near  Lac 
Inferieur  and  close  to  the  point  where  the  Allee  de  la 
Reine-Marguerite  and  the  Allee  de  Longchamp  cross. 
In  the  summer  it  is  quite  the  thing  for  the  young 
bloods  who  frequent  the  night  cafes  on  Montmartre  to 
drive  into  the  Bois  in  the  early  morning  and  drink  a 
glass  of  milk  in  the  Pre  Catelan's  dairy,  perhaps  bringing 
the  milkmaids  with  them. 

The  Bois  has  two  race-courses,  but  it  is  at  Longchamp 
that  the  principal  races  are  run  —  the  Grand  Prix  and 
the  Conseil  Municipal.  Racing  men  tell  me  that  the 
defect  of  the  pari-mutuel  system  is  that  one  cannot  ar- 
range one's  book,  since  the  odds  are  always  more  or 
less  of  a  surprise ;  but  to  one  who  does  not  bet  on  horses 
anywhere  but  in  Paris,  and  who  views  an  English  book- 
maker with  alarm,  if  not  positive  terror,  the  pari-mutuel 
seems  perfect  in  its  easy  and  silent  workings  and  the 
dramatic  unfolding  of  its  surprises.  For  first  you  have 
the  fun  of  picking  out  your  horse ;  then  quietly  putting 
your  money  on  him,  to  win  or  for  a  place;  and  then, 
after  the  race  is  run  and  your  horse  is  a  winner,  you 
have  those  five  to  ten  delightfully  anxious  minutes  while 
the  actuaries  are  working  out  the  odds. 


148  A   WANDERER   IN   PARIS 

An  experience  of  my  own  will  illustrate  not  only  the 
method  of  the  system  but  the  haphazard  principles  on 
which  a  stranger's  modest  gambling  can  be  done.  On 
the  morning  of  the  races  I  had  visited  the  Louvre  with 
Mr.  Dexter,  the  artist  of  this  book.  We  had  not  much 
time,  and  were  therefore  proposing  to  look  only  at  the 
Leonardos  and  the  Rembrandts,  which  are  separated 
by  a  considerable  stretch  of  gallery  hung  with  other 
pictures.  On  leaving  the  Leonardos  we  walked  briskly 
towards  the  Dutch  end ;  Mr.  Dexter,  however,  loitered 
here  and  there,  and  I  was  some  distance  ahead  when  he 
called  me  back  to  see  a  Holbein.  It  was  worth  going 
back  for.  In  the  afternoon  at  Longchamp,  when  the 
time  came  before  the  race  to  pick  out  the  horses  who 
were  to  have  the  honour  of  carrying  my  money,  I  noticed 
that  one  of  them  was  named  Holbein.  Having  already 
that  day  been  pleased  with  a  Holbein,  I  accepted  the 
circumstance  as  a  line  of  guidance,  and  placed  a  five- 
franc  piece  on  the  brave  animal.  He  came  in  first,  and 
being  an  outsider  his  price  was  185.50. 

The  Longchamp  course  is  perfectly  managed.  There 
are  three  places  where  one  may  go  —  to  the  pesage, 
which  costs  twenty  francs  for  a  cavalier  and  ten  francs 
for  a  dame;  to  the  pavilion,  which  is  half  that  price; 
or  to  the  pelouse,  where  the  people  congregate,  which 
costs  a  franc.     Perfect  order  reigns  everywhere. 

For  the  wanderer  who  has  no  carriage  awaiting  him 
and  no  appointments  to  hurry  him  there  are  two  enter- 
taining things  to  do  when  the  races  are  over  on  a  fine 


MODERN  ART  149 

Sunday  afternoon.  One  is  to  cross  the  Seine  to  Suresnes 
by  the  adjacent  bridge  and  sitting  at  the  cafe  that  faces 
it,  watch  the  crowd  and  the  traffic,  for  this  is  on  a  main 
road  from  Paris  to  the  country;  or  walking  the  other 
way,  one  may  enjoy  a  similar  spectacle  at  the  Cafe  du 
Sport  outside  the  Porte  Maillot  and  study  at  one's  ease 
the  happy  French  in  holiday  mood  —  the  husbands  with 
their  wives  and  their  two  children,  and  the  Sunday 
lovers  arm  in  arm. 

And  now  we  return  to  the  Champs-Elysees  in  order 
to  look  at  some  pictures  and  admire  a  beautiful  bridge. 
For  the  Avenue  d'Alexandre  III.,  as  for  the  Pont  d'  Alex- 
andre III.,  Paris  is  indebted  to  the  1900  Exhibition. 
These  are  her  permanent  gains  and  very  valuable  they 
are.  Of  the  two  white  palaces  on  either  side  of  this 
green  and  spacious  Avenue,  that  on  the  right,  as  we 
face  the  golden  dome  of  the  Invalides,  is  the  home  of 
the  Salon  and  of  various  exhibitions.  I  say  Salon,  but 
Paris  now  has  many  Salons,  two  of  which,  in  more  or 
less  amicable  rivalry,  occupy  this  building  at  the  same 
time.  In  one,  the  Salon  proper,  the  Salon  of  the  old 
guard,  the  Royal  Academicians  of  France,  there  are 
miles  of  paint  but  few  experiments ;  in  the  other,  where 
the  more  independent  spirits  —  the  New  Englishers,  so 
to  speak  —  hang  their  works  in  personal  groups,  there 
are  fewer  miles  but  more  outrages.  For  outrages,  how- 
ever, pure  and  simple  (or  even  impure  and  complex),  I 
recommend  the  Salon  that  is  now  held  in  the  early 
spring  in  some  of  the  old  Exhibition  buildings  on  the 


150  A  WANDERER  IN  PARIS 

banks  of  the  river,  close  to  the  Pont  d'Alexandre  III. 
I  have  seen  pictures  there  —  nudities,  in  the  manner  of 
Aztec  decorations,  by  the  youngest  French  artists  of 
the  moment  —  which  made  one  want  to  scream.  It  was 
said  once  that  the  French  knew  how  to  paint  but  not 
what  to  paint,  and  the  English  what  to  paint  but  not 
how  to  paint  it.  Since  then  there  has  been  such  a  fusing 
of  nationalities,  such  increased  and  humble  appreciation 
on  the  part  of  the  English  painters  of  the  best  French 
methods,  that  one  can  no  longer  talk  in  that  kind  of 
cast-iron  epigram;  but  it  is  impossible  to  see  some  of 
the  crude  innovating  work  now  being  done  without  the 
reflection  that  France  is  rapidly  and  successfully  creating 
a  school  of  artists  who  not  only  know  what  to  paint 
but  how  to  paint  too. 

The  Palais  des  Beaux-Arts,  which  was  built  for  the 
collection  of  pictures  at  the  Exhibition  of  1900,  is  now 
a  permanent  gallery  for  the  preservation  of  the  various 
works  of  art  acquired  from  time  to  time  by  the  munici- 
pality of  Paris,  thus  differing  from  the  Luxembourg  col- 
lections, which  are  national.  The  Palais  has  become  a 
kind  of  brother  of  the  Carnavalet,  the  one  being  the 
historical  museum  of  Paris  and  the  other  —  the  Palais  — 
the  artistic  museum  of  Paris.  The  Palais  undoubtedly 
contains  much  that  is  not  of  the  highest  quality,  but 
no  one  who  is  interested  in  modern  French  painting 
and  drawing  can  afford  to  neglect  it,  while  the  recent 
acquisition  of  the  Collection  Dutuit,  consisting  chiefly  of 
small  but  choice  pictures  of  the  Dutch  masters,  includ- 


TWO  SCULPTORS  151 

ing  a  picture  of  Rembrandt  with  his  dog,  from  his  own 
hand,  has  added  a  rather  necessary  touch  of  antiquity. 

One  of  the  special  rooms  is  devoted  to  pictures  of  the 
opulent  Felix  Ziem,  painter  of  Venetian  sunsets  and  the 
sky  at  its  most  golden,  wherever  it  may  be  found,  who 
is  still  (1909)  living  in  honourable  state  on  those  slopes 
of  the  mountain  of  fame  which  are  reserved  for  the  few 
rare  spirits  that  become  old  masters  before  they  die, 
and  who  presented  his  pictures  to  Paris  a  few  years  ago ; 
another  room  is  filled  with  the  works  of  the  late  Jean 
Jacques  Henner,  whose  pallid  nudities,  emerging  from 
voluptuous  gloom,  still  look  yearningly  at  one  from  the 
windows  of  so  many  Paris  picture  dealers.  Henner,  I 
must  confess,  is  not  a  painter  whom  I  greatly  esteem; 
but  few  modern  French  artists  were  more  popular  in 
their  day.  He  died  in  1905,  and  this  gift  of  his  work 
was  made  by  his  son.  Other  French  artists  to  have 
rooms  of  their  own  in  the  Palais  are  Jean  Carries  the 
sculptor,  who  died  in  1894  at  the  age  of  thirty-nine, 
after  an  active  career  in  the  modelling  of  quaint  and 
grotesque  and  realistic  figures,  one  of  the  best  known 
and  most  charming  of  his  many  works  being  "  La  Fil- 
lette  au  Pantin"  (No.  1338  in  the  collection);  and 
Jules  Dalou  (1838-1902),  also  a  sculptor,  a  man  of  more 
vigour  although  of  less  charm  than  his  neighbour  in 
the  Palais.  That  strange  gift  of  untiring  abundant 
creativeness  which  the  French  have  so  notably,  Dalou 
also  shared,  his  busy  fingers  having  added  thousands  of 
new  figures  to  those  that  already  congest  life,  while  he 


152  A  WANDERER  IN  PARIS 

modelled  also  many  a  well-known  head.  I  think  that 
I  like  best  his  "Esquisses  de  Travailleurs."  Nothing 
here,  however,  is  so  fascinating  as  Dalou's  own  head  by 
Rodin  in  the  Luxembourg. 

Of  the  picture  collection  proper  I  am  saying  but 
little,  for  it  is  in  a  fluid  state,  and  even  in  the  catalogue 
before  me,  the  latest  edition,  there  is  no  mention  of 
several  of  its  finest  treasures:  among  them  Manet's 
portrait  of  Theodore  Duret,  a  sketch  of  an  old  peasant 
woman's  hand  by  Madame  David,  a  Rip  Van  Winkle 
by  that  modern  master  of  the  grotesque  and  Rabelaisian, 
Jean  Veber,  and  one  of  Mr.  Sargent's  Venetian  sketches 
—  the  racing  gondoliers.  For  the  most  part  it  is  like 
revisiting  the  past  few  Salons,  except  that  the  pictures 
are  more  choice  and  less  numerous ;  but  one  sees  many 
old  friends,  and  all  the  expected  painters  are  here.  It 
is  of  course  the  surprises  that  one  remembers  —  the 
three  Daumiers,  for  example,  particularly  "  L'Amateur 
d'Estampes,"  reproduced  opposite  page  286,  and  "  Les 
Joueurs  d'Echecs,"  and  the  fine  collection  of  the  draw- 
ings of  Puvis  de  Chavannes  and  Daniel  Vierge.  I  was 
also  much  taken  with  some  topographical  drawings  by 
Adrian  Karbowski  —  No.  494  in  the  catalogue.  Other 
pictures  and  drawings  which  should  be  seen  are  those  by 
Cazin  (a  sunset),  Pointelin,  Steinlen  (some  work-girls), 
Sisley,  Lebourg,  and  Harpignies,  who  exhibits  water- 
colours  separated  in  time  by  fifty-nine  years,  1849  to  1908. 
The  drawings  on  a  whole  are  far  better  than  the  paintings. 

In  the  collection  Dutuit  look  at  Ruisdael's  "Environs 


THE   LITTLE    DANCERS  153 

de  Haarlem,"  Terburg's  "La  Fiancee,"  Hobbema's 
"LesMoulins"  and  a  woodland  scene,  Pot's  "  Portrait  of 
a  Man,"  Van  de  Velde's  landscape  sketches,  and  the  Rem- 
brandt.    The  rooms  downstairs  are  not  worth  visiting. 

Among  the  statuary,  some  of  which  is  very  good, 
particularly  a  new  unsigned  and  uncatalogued  Joan  of 
Arc,  is  a  naked  Victor  Hugo  holding  a  MS.  in  his 
hand ;  while  Fremiet  of  course  confronts  the  door,  this 
time  with  a  really  fine  George  and  the  Dragon,  George 
having  a  spear  worthy  of  the  occasion,  and  not  the  short 
and  useless  broadsword  which  he  brandishes  on  the 
English   sovereign. 

On  my  last  visit  to  this  thinly  populated  gallery  I 
was  for  some  time  one  of  three  visitors,  until  sud- 
denly the  vast  spaces  were  humanised  by  the  gracious 
and  winsome  presence  of  a  band  of  Isadora  Duncan's 
gay  little  dancers,  with  a  kindly  companion  to  tell  them 
about  the  pictures,  and  —  what  interested  them  more 
—  the  statues.  These  tiny  lissome  creatures  flitting 
among  the  cold  rigid  marbles  I  shall  not  soon  forget. 

And  so  we  come  to  the  Pont  d' Alexandre  III.,  the 
bridge  whose  width  and  radiance  are  an  ever  fresh  sur- 
prise and  joy,  and  make  our  way  to  the  Invalides,  at 
the  end  of  the  prospect,  across  the  great  Esplanade  des 
Invalides,  so  quiet  to-day,  but  for  a  month  of  every  year 
so  noisy  and  variegated  with  round-abouts  and  booths. 
It  is,  by  the  way,  well  worth  while,  whenever  one  is 
in  Paris,  to  find  out  what  fair  is  being  held.  For  some- 
where or  other  a  fair  is  always  being  held.     You  can 


154  A  WANDERER  IN  PARIS 

get  the  particulars  from  the  invaluable  Bottin  or  Bottin 
Mondaine,  which  every  restaurant  keeps,  and  which  is 
even  exposed  to  public  scrutiny  on  a  table  at  the  Gare 
du  Nord,  and  for  all  I  know  to  the  contrary,  at  the 
other  stations  too.  This  is  one  of  the  lessons  which 
might  be  learned  from  Paris  by  London,  where  you  ask 
in  vain  for  a  Post  Office  Directory  even  in  the  General 
Post  Office.  Bottin,  who  knows  all,  will  give  you  the 
time  and  place  of  every  fair.  The  best  is  the  Fete  de 
Neuilly,  which  is  held  in  the  summer,  just  outside  the 
Porte  Maillot,  but  all  the  arrondissements  have  their 
own.  They  are  crowded  scenes  of  noisy  life ;  but  they 
are  amusing  too,  and  their  popularity  shows  you  how 
juvenile  is  the  Frenchman's  heart. 

One  should  enter  the  Invalides  from  the  great  Place 
and  round  off  the  inspection  of  the  Musee  de  l'Armee 
by  a  visit  to  Napoleon's  tomb ;  that,  at  least,  is  the 
symmetrical  order.  The  Hotel  des  Invalides  proper, 
which  set  the  fashion  in  military  hospitals,  was  built  by 
Louis  XIV.,  who  may  be  seen  on  his  horse  in  bas-relief 
on  the  principal  facade.  The  building  once  sheltered 
and  tended  7,000  wounded  soldiers ;  but  there  are  now 
only  fifty.  From  its  original  function  as  a  military  hospi- 
tal for  any  kind  of  disablement  it  has  dwindled  to  a  home 
for  a  few  incurables;  while  the  greater  portion  of  the 
building  is  now  given  up  to  collections  and  to  civic  offices. 
There  could  be  no  greater  contrast  than  that  between 
the  imposing  architecture  of  the  main  structure  and  the 
charming  domestic  facade  in  the  Boulevard  des  Invalides, 


LES    PELERINS   D'EM.MAUS 

REMBRANDT 
{Louvre") 


A  PAGEANT  OF  ARMS  155 

which  is  one  of  the  pleasantest  of  the  old  Paris  buildings 
and  has  some  of  the  simplicity  of  an  English  almshouse. 

It  is  not  until  we  enter  the  great  Court  of  Honour 
that  we  catch  sight  of  Napoleon,  whose  figure  dominates 
the  opposite  wall.  Thereafter  one  thinks  of  little  else. 
Louis  XIV.  disappears. 

Passing  some  dingy  frescoes  which  the  weather  has 
treated  vilely,  we  enter  the  Musee  Historique  on  the 
left  —  unless  one  has  an  overwhelming  passion  for 
artillery  armour  and  the  weapons  of  savages,  in  which 
case  one  turns  to  the  right.  I  mention  the  alternative 
because  there  is  far  too  much  to  see  on  one  visit,  and  it 
is  well  to  concentrate  on  the  more  interesting.  For  me 
guns  and  armour  and  the  weapons  of  savages  are  with- 
out any  magic  while  there  are  to  be  seen  such  human 
relics  as  have  been  brought  together  in  the  Musee  His- 
torique on  the  opposite  side  of  the  Court.  The  whole 
place,  by  the  way,  is  a  model  for  the  Carnavalet,  in  that 
everything  is  precisely  and  clearly  labelled.  This,  since 
it  is  a  favourite  resort  of  simple  folk  —  soldiers  and  their 
parents  and  sweethearts  —  is  a  thoughtful  provision. 

The  Musee  Historique  has  at  every  turn  something 
profoundly  interesting,  and  incidentally  it  tells  some- 
thing of  the  men  from  whom  numbers  of  Paris  streets 
take  their  names ;  but  the  real  and  poignant  interest  is 
Napoleon.  The  Longwood  room  is  to  me  too  painful. 
The  project  of  the  admirable  administrator  has  been  to 
illustrate  the  whole  pageant  of  French  arms;  but  the 
Man  of  Destiny  quickly  becomes  all-powerful,  and  one 


156  A  WANDERER  IN   PARIS 

finds  oneself  looking  only  for  signs  and  tokens  of  his 
personality.  So  it  should  be,  under  the  shadow  of  the 
Dome  which  covers  his  ashes.  I  would  personally  go 
farther  and  collect  at  the  Invalides  all  the  Napoleonic 
relics  that  one  now  must  visit  so  many  places  to  see  — 
the  Carnavalet  Fontainebleau,  the  Musee  Grevin,  our 
own  United  Service  Museum  in  Whitehall  (as  if  we  had 
the  right  to  a  single  article  from  St.  Helena  !),  Madame 
Tussaud's,  and  Versailles.  There  is  even  a  room  at  the 
Arts  Decoratif  s  devoted  nominally  to  Napoleon,  but  it  has 
few  articles  of  personal  interest  and  none  of  any  intimacy 
— merely  splendid  costumes  for  occasions  and  ceremonials 
of  State,  with  a  few  of  Josephine's  lace  caps  among  them. 
Its  purpose  is  to  illustrate  the  Empire  rather  than  the 
Emperor,  but  the  Invalides  should  have  what  there  is. 
At  the  Invalides  you  may,  I  suppose,  see  in  three  or 
four  rooms  more  Napoleonic  relics  of  a  personal  charac- 
ter than  anywhere  else.  In  Whitehall  is  the  chair  he  died 
in ;  but  here  is  his  garden-seat  from  St.  Helena,  one  bar 
of  which  was  removed  to  allow  him  as  he  sat  to  pass 
his  arm  through  and  be  more  at  his  ease  as  he  looked 
out  to  the  ocean  that  was  to  do  nothing  for  him.  At 
Whitehall  is  the  skeleton  of  his  horse  Marengo;  here 
is  the  saddle.  Here  are  his  grey  redingote  and  more 
than  one  of  his  hats.  Among  the  relics  in  the  special 
Napoleonic  rooms  those  of  his  triumph  and  his  fall  are 
mixed.  Here  is  the  bullet  that  wounded  him  at  Ratis- 
bon  :  here  are  his  telescopes  and  his  maps,  his  travelling 
desks  and  his  pistols ;  here  are  the  toys  of  the  little  Duke 


THE   MIGHTY   DEAD  157 

of  Reichstadt ;  here  is  the  walking  stick  on  which  Napo- 
leon leaned  at  St.  Helena,  his  dressing-gown,  his  bed,  his 
armchair  and  his  death-mask.  Here  are  the  railings  of 
the  tomb  at  St.  Helena,  and  a  case  of  leaves  and  stones 
and  pieces  of  wood  and  other  natural  surroundings  of  the 
same  spot.  Here  also  is  the  pall  that  covered  his  coffin 
on  the  way  to  its  final  burial  under  the  Dome  close  by. 

It  is  a  fitting  end  to  the  study  of  these  storied  corri- 
dors to  pass  to  the  tomb  of  the  protagonist  of  the  drama 
we  have  been  contemplating.  The  Emperor's  remains 
were  brought  to  Paris  in  1840,  nineteen  years  after  his 
death  at  St.  Helena.  Thackeray  in  his  Second  Funeral 
of  Napoleon  wrote  a  vivid,  although  to  my  mind  hateful, 
description  of  the  ceremonial:  a  piece  of  complacent 
flippancy,  marked  by  the  worst  kind  of  French  irrever- 
ence, which  shows  him  in  his  least  admirable  mood, 
particularly  when  he  is  pleased  to  be  amusing  over  the 
difference  between  the  features  of  the  Emperor  dead 
and  living.     None  the  less  it  is  an  absorbing  narrative. 

One  looks  down  upon  the  sarcophagus,  which  lies  in 
a  marble  well.  It  is  simple,  solemn  and  severe,  and  to 
a  few  persons,  not  Titmarshes,  inexpressibly  melancholy. 
The  Emperor's  words  from  his  will,  "  Je  desire  que  mes 
cendres  reposent  sur  les  bords  de  la  Seine,  au  milieu  de 
ce  peuple  francais  que  j'ai  tant  aime,"  are  placed  at  the 
entrance  to  the  crypt.  He  had  not  the  Invalides  in 
mind  when  he  wrote  them;  but  one  feels  that  the 
Invalides  is  as  right  a  spot  for  him  as  any  in  this  land 
of  short  memories  and  light  mockeries. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE    BOULEVARD    ST.    GERMAIN    AND    ITS    TRIBUTARIES 

An  Aristocratic  Quarter —  Adrienne  Lecouvreur  —  A  Grisly  Museum 

—  A  Changeless  City  —  The  Pasteur  Institute  —  The  Golden  Key 

—  The  Stoppeur  —  Sterne  —  The  Beaux  Arts  —  A  Wilderness  of 
Copies  —  Voltaire  Clad  and  Naked  —  The  Mint  —  An  Inquisitive 
Visitor  —  Bad  Money. 

FROM  the  Invalides  the  Boulevard  St.  Germain, 
the  west  to  east  highway  of  the  Surrey  side  of 
Paris,  is  easily  gained ;  but  it  is  not  in  itself  very  in- 
teresting. The  interesting  streets  either  cross  it  or  run 
more  or  less  parallel  with  it,  such  as  the  old  and  wind- 
ing Rue  de  Grenelle,  which  we  come  to  at  once,  the 
home  of  the  Parisian  aristocracy  after  its  removal  from 
the  Marais.  The  houses  are  little  changed:  merely 
the  tenants ;  and  certain  Embassies  are  now  here.  No. 
18  was  once  the  Hotel  de  Beauharnais,  the  home  of  the 
fair  Josephine;  at  the  Russian  Embassy,  No.  79,  the 
Duchesse  d'Estrees  lived.  In  an  outhouse  at  No.  115 
was  buried  in  unconsecrated  ground  Adrienne  Lecouv- 
reur, the  tragedienne  who  made  tragedy,  the  beloved  of 
Marechal  Saxe.  Scribe's  drama  has  made  her  story 
known  —  how  her  heart  was  too  much  for  her,  and 

158 


OLD   CURIOSITY  SHOPS  159 

how  Christian  burial  was  refused  her  by  a  Christian 
priest. 

The  Rue  St.  Dominique,  parallel  with  the  Rue  de 
Grenelle  nearer  the  river,  is  equally  old  and  august. 
At  No.  13  lived  Madame  de  Genlis,  the  monitress  of 
French  youth.  Still  nearer  the  river  runs  the  long  Rue 
de  l'Universite,  which  also  has  an  illustrious  past  and 
a  picturesque  present,  some  great  French  noble  having 
built  nearly  every  house. 

One  of  the  first  old  streets  to  cross  the  Boulevard  St. 
Germain  is  the  Rue  du  Bac,  a  roadway  made  when  the 
Palace  of  the  Tuileries  was  building,  to  convey  materials 
from  Vaugiraud  to  the  bac  (or  ferry  boat)  which  crossed 
the  Seine  where  the  Pont  Royal  now  stands.  This 
street  also  is  full  of  ancient  palaces  and  convents. 
Chateaubriand  died  at  118-120.  At  128  is  the  Semi- 
naires  des  Missions  Etrangeres,  with  a  terrible  little 
museum  called  the  Chambre  des  Martyrs,  very  French 
in  character,  displaying  instruments  of  torture  which 
have  been  used  upon  missionaries  in  China  and  other 
countries  inimical  (like  poor  Adrienne's  priest)  to  Christi- 
anity. The  Rue  des  Saints-Peres  resembles  the  Rue  du 
Bac,  but  is  more  attractive  to  the  loiterer  because  it 
has  perhaps  the  greatest  number  of  old  curiosity  shops 
of  any  street  in  Paris.  They  touch  each  other:  per- 
haps they  take  in  each  other's  dusting.  I  never  saw 
a  customer  enter;  but  that  of  course  means  nothing. 
One  might  be  sure  of  finding  a  case  made  of  peau  de 
chagrin  here  and  be  equally  sure  that  Balzac  had  trodden 


160  A  WANDERER   IN   PARIS 

this  pavement  before  you.  You  will  see,  however, 
nothing  or  very  little  that  is  beautiful,  because  Paris 
does  not  care  much  for  sheer  beauty. 

The  Rue  des  Saints-Peres  runs  upwards  into  the  Rue 
de  Sevres,  where  old  convents  cluster  and  the  Bon 
Marche  raises  its  successful  modern  bulk.  It  was  in  the 
Abbaye-aux-Bois,  once  at  the  corner  of  the  Rue  de 
Sevres  and  the  Rue  de  la  Chaise  but  now  buried  beneath 
a  gigantic  block  of  new  flats,  that  Madame  Recamier 
lived  from  1814  until  her  death  in  1849,  visited  latterly 
every  day  by  the  faithful  Chateaubriand.  M.  Georges 
Cain  has  a  charming  chapter  on  this  friendship  and  its 
scene  in  his  Promenades  dans  Paris,  of  which  an  English 
translation,  entitled  Walks  in  Paris,  has  recently  been 
published. 

Returning:  to  the  Boulevard  St.  Germain,  which  we 
leave  as  often  as  we  touch  it,  I  remember  that,  on  the 
south  side,  between  the  Invalides  end  and  the  statue  of 
the  inventor  of  the  semaphore,  used  to  be  a  little  shop 
devoted  to  the  sale  of  trophies  of  Joan  of  Arc.  And 
since  it  used  to  be  there,  it  follows  that  it  is  there  still,  for 
nothing  in  Paris  ever  changes.  One  of  the  great  charms 
of  Paris  is  that  it  is  always  the  same.  I  can  think  o: 
hardly  any  shop  that  has  changed  in  the  last  ten  years. 
This  means,  I  suppose,  that  the  French  rarely  die. 
How  can  they,  disliking  as  they  do  to  leave  Paris  ?  It 
is  the  English  and  the  Scotch,  born  to  forsake  their 
homes  and  live  uncomfortably  foreign  lives,  who  die. 
If  one  is  interested  in  seeing  the  Pasteur  Institute, 


THE   COUR   DU   DRAGON  161 

now  is  the  time,  for  it  is  not  far  from  the  Rue  de  Sevres, 
in  the  Rue  Falguiere,  named  after  Falguiere,  the  sculptor 
of  the  memorial  to  Pasteur  in  the  Place  Bretcuil :  one 
of  the  best  examples  of  recent  Paris  statuary,  with  a 
charming  shepherd  boy  playing  his  pipe  to  his  flock  on 
one  side  of  the  pediment,  and  grimmer  scenes  of  disease 
on  the  others.  This  monument,  however,  is  some  dis- 
tance from  the  Institute,  the  Place  Breteuil  being  the 
first  carrefour  in  that  vast  and  endless  avenue  which 
leads  southwards  from  Napoleon's  tomb.  The  Institute 
itself  has  a  spirited  statue  of  Jupille  the  shepherd,  one 
of  its  first  patients,  in  his  struggle  with  the  wolf  that 
bit  him.  Pasteur's  tomb  is  here,  but  I  have  not  seen 
it,  as  I  arrived  on  the  wrong  day. 

One  of  the  most  attractive  of  the  Boulevard  St. 
Germain's  byways  is  entered  just  round  the  corner  of 
the  Rue  de  Rennes.  This  is  the  Cour  du  Dragon, 
which  is  not  only  a  relic  of  old  Paris,  but  old  Paris  is 
still  visible  hard  at  work  in  it.  The  Cour  du  Dragon 
is  a  narrow  court  gained  by  an  archway  over  which  a 
red  dragon  perches,  holding  up  the  balcony  with  his 
vigorous  pinions.  It  was  the  Hotel  Taranne  in  the 
reigns  of  Charles  VI.  and  VII.  and  Louis  XI. ;  later 
it  became  a  famous  riding  and  fencing  school.  It  is 
now  a  cheerful  nest  of  artisans  —  coppersmiths,  lock- 
smiths, coal  merchants  and  the  like,  who  fill  it  with 
brisk  hammerings,  while  at  the  windows  above,  with 
their  green  shutters,  the  songs  of  caged  birds  mingle  in 
the  symphony. 


162  A   WANDERER  IN  PARIS 

As  in  all  Parisian  streets  or  courts  where  sisrns  are 
hung,  the  golden  key  is  prominent.  (There  is  one  in 
Mr.  Dexter's  picture  of  the  Rue  de  l'Hotel  de  Ville.) 
What  the  proportion  of  locksmiths  is  to  the  population 
of  Paris  I  cannot  say;  but  their  pretty  symbol  is  to  be 
seen  everywhere.  The  reason  of  their  numbers  is  not 
very  mysterious  when  we  recollect  that  practically  every- 
one that  one  meets  in  this  city,  and  certainly  all  the 
people  of  the  middling  and  working  classes,  live  in  flats, 
and  all  want  keys.  The  streets  and  streets  of  the  small 
houses  with  which  East  London  is  covered  are  unknown 
in  Paris,  where  every  facade  is  but  the  mask  which  hides 
vast  tenements  packed  with  families.  No  wonder  then 
that  the  serrurier  is  so  busy. 

Another  sign  which  probably  puzzles  many  English 
people  is  that  of  the  stoppeur.  Bellows'  dictionary  does 
not  recognise  the  word.  What  is  a  stoppeur  and  what 
does  he  stop  ?  I  discovered  the  answer  in  the  most 
practical  way  possible;  for  a  Frenchman,  in  a  crowd, 
helped  me  to  it  by  pushing  his  lighted  cigar  into  my 
back  and  burning  a  hole  in  it,  right  in  the  middle  of 
the  coat,  where  a  patch  would  necessarily  show.  I  was 
in  despair  until  the  femme  de  ehambre  reassured  me. 
It  was  nothing,  she  said  :  all  that  was  needed  was  a  stop- 
peur. She  would  take  the  coat  herself.  It  seems  that  the 
stoppeur's  craft  is  that  of  mending  holes  so  deftly  that 
you  would  not  know  there  had  been  any.  He  ascertains 
the  pattern  by  means  of  a  magnifying  glass,  and  then 
extracts  threads  from  some  part  of  the  garment  that 


FLANDRIN  AND    DELACROIX  163 

does  not  show  and  weaves  them  in.  I  paid  three  francs 
and  have  been  looking  for  the  injured  spot  ever  since, 
but  cannot  find  it.     It  is  a  modern  miracle. 

Diagonally  opposite  the  Court  of  the  Dragon  is  the 
Church  of  St.  Germain  —  not  the  St.  Germain  who  owns 
the  church  at  the  east  end  of  the  Louvre,  but  St.  Ger- 
main du  Pre,  a  lesser  luminary.  It  has  no  particular 
beauty,  but  a  number  of  frescoes  by  Flandrin,  the  pupil 
of  Ingres,  give  it  a  cachet.  Flandrin's  bust  is  to  be  ob- 
served on  the  north  wall.  The  frescoes  cannot  be  seen 
except  under  very  favourable  conditions,  and  therefore 
for  me  the  greatness  of  Flandrin  has  to  be  sought  in  his 
drawings  at  the  Luxembourg  and  the  Louvre  —  suffi- 
cient proof  of  his  exquisite  hand. 

Before  descending  the  Rue  Buonaparte  to  the  river, 
let  us  ascend  it  to  see  the  great  church  of  St.  Sulpice 
and  its  paintings  by  Delacroix  in  the  Chapel  of  the 
Holy  Angels.  Under  the  Convention  St.  Sulpice  was 
the  Temple  of  Victory,  and  here  General  Buonaparte 
was  feasted  in  1799.  The  church  is  famous  for  its 
music  and  an  organ  second  only  to  that  of  St.  Eustache. 
And  now  let  us  descend  the  Rue  Buonaparte  to  the 
quais,  where  several  buildings  await  us,  beginning  with 
the  Beaux-Arts  at  the  foot  of  the  street;  but  first  the 
Rue  Jacob,  which  bisects  the  Rue  Buonaparte,  should 
be  looked  at,  for  it  has  had  many  illustrious  inhabitants, 
including  our  own  Laurence  Sterne,  who  lodged  here, 
at  No.  46,  in  the  Hotel  of  his  friend  Madame  Ram- 
bouillet  (of  the  easy  manners)  when  he  was  studying  the 


164  A  WANDERER  IN  PARIS 

French  for  A  Sentimental  Journey.  It  was  here  per- 
haps that  he  penned  the  famous  opening  sentence: 
"  '  They  order,'  said  I,  '  these  things  better  in  France '  " 
—  which  no  other  writer  on  Paris  has  succeeded  in  for- 
getting. At  No.  20  lived  Adrienne  Lecouvreur,  and 
hither  Voltaire  must  often  have  come,  for  he  greatly  ad- 
mired her.  At  No.  7  is  a  fine  old  staircase  and  an  old 
well  in  the  court. 

The  Palais  des  Beaux-Arts,  where  the  Royal  Academy 
Schools  of  Paris  are  situated,  is  an  unexhilarating  build- 
ing containing  a  great  number  of  unexciting  paintings. 
Indeed,  I  think  that  no  public  edifice  of  Paris  is  so 
dreary :  within  and  without  one  has  a  sense,  not  exactly 
of  decay,  but  certainly  of  neglect.  This  is  not  the  less 
odd  when  one  thinks  of  the  purpose  of  the  institution, 
which  is  to  foster  the  arts,  and  when  one  thinks  also 
of  the  spotless  perfection  in  which  the  Petit  Palais,  the 
latest  of  the  Parisian  picture  galleries,  is  maintained. 
The  spirit,  however,  is  willing,  if  the  flesh  is  weak,  for 
in  the  first  and  second  courts  are  examples  of  the  best 
French  architecture,  and  a  bust  of  Jean  Goujon  is  let 
into  the  wall  of  the  Musee  des  Antiques.  The  building 
contains  a  number  of  casts  of  the  best  sculptures  and 
an  amphitheatre  with  Delaroche's  pageant  of  painters 
on  the  hemicycle  and  Ingres'  Victory  of  Romulus  over 
the  Sabines  opposite  it ;  but  there  is  not  always  enough 
light  to  see  either  well.  For  the  best  view  of  Delaroche's 
great  work  one  must  go  upstairs  to  the  Gallery.  The 
library  also  is  upstairs,  with  many  thousand  of  valuable 


SINCEREST   FLATTERY  165 

works  on  art  and  a  collection  of  drawings  by  the  masters, 
access  to  which  is  made  easy  to  genuine  students. 

By  returning  to  the  first  court  we  come  to  the  Musee 
de  la  Renaissance,  which  now  occupies  an  old  chapel  of 
the  Couvent  des  Petits-Augustins,  on  the  site  of  which 
the  Palais  de  Beaux-Arts  was  built.  Here  are  more 
casts  and  copies,  and  there  are  still  more  in  the  adjoin- 
ing Cour  du  Murier,  where  stands  the  memorial  of 
Henri  Regnault,  the  painter,  and  the  students  who 
died  with  him  during  the  defence  of  Paris  in  1870-71. 

We  then  enter  the  Salle  de  Melpomene,  so  called 
from  the  dominating  cast  of  the  Melpomene  at  the 
Louvre,  and  are  straightway  among  what  seem  at  the 
first  glance  to  be  old  friends  from  all  the  best  galleries 
of  the  world  but  too  quickly  are  revealed  as  counterfeits. 
Rembrandt's  School  of  Anatomy  and  the  Syndics,  our 
own  National  Gallery  Correggio,  the  Dresden  Raphael, 
the  Wallace  Collection  Velasquez  (the  Lady  with  a  Fan), 
one  of  Hals'  groups  of  arquebusiers,  and  Paul  Potter's 
Bull :  all  are  here,  together  with  countless  others,  all 
the  work  of  Beaux-Arts  students,  and  some  exceedingly 
good,  but  also  (like  most  copies)  exceedingly  depressing. 

In  other  rooms  almost  pitch  dark  are  modelled  studies 
of  expression  and  paintings  which  have  won  the  Grand 
Prix  of  Rome  during  the  past  two  hundred  years.  It 
is  odd  to  notice  how  few  names  one  recognises :  it  is  as 
though,  like  the  Newdigate,  this  prize  were  an  end  in 
itself. 

Having  contemplated  the  statue  of  Voltaire  in  his 


166  A   WANDERER   IN   PARIS 

robes  outside  the  Institut,  the  next  building  of  import- 
ance after  the  Beaux  Arts,  you  may,  if  you  so  desire, 
gaze  upon  the  same  philosopher  in  a  state  of  nature  by 
entering  the  Institut  itself,  and  ascending  to  its  Bib- 
liotheque. There  he  sits,  the  skinny  cynic,  among  the 
books  which  he  wrote  and  the  books  which  he  read  and 
the  books  which  would  not  have  been  written  but  for 
him.  I  was  glad  to  see  him  thus,  for  it  showed  me 
where  our  own  Arouet,  Mr.  Bernard  Shaw,  found  his 
inspiration  when  he  too  subjected  recently  his  economi- 
cal frame  to  the  maker  of  portraits.  Mr.  Shaw  sat,  how- 
ever, only  to  a  photographer  (although  a  very  good 
one,  Mr.  Coburn) ;  when  he  visited  Rodin  it  was  for  the 
head,  a  replica  of  which  may  be  seen  at  the  Luxembourg. 
Speaking  of  heads,  the  Institut  is  a  wilderness  of  them : 
heads  line  the  stairs;  heads  line  the  walls  not  only  of 
its  own  Bibliotheque  but  of  the  Bibliotheque  de  Mazarin, 
which  also  is  here,  a  haven  for  every  student  that  cares 
to  seek  it:  heads  of  the  great  Frenchmen  of  all  time 
and  of  the  Caesars  too. 

The  Pont  des  Arts,  which  leads  direct  from  the  old 
Louvre  to  the  Institut  (a  connection,  if  ever,  no  longer 
of  any  importance),  is  for  foot  passengers  only.  One  is 
therefore  more  at  ease  there  in  observing  the  river  than 
on  the  noisy  bridge  of  stone.  But  it  is  inexcusably  ugly, 
and  leaves  one  continually  wondering  what  Napoleon 
was  about  to  allow  it  to  be  built  —  and  of  iron  too  —  in 
his  day  of  good  taste.  Looking  up  stream,  the  Pont 
Neuf  is  close  by  with  the  thin  green  end  of  the  Cite's 


LA  VIERGE  AU   DONATEUR 

J.    VAN    EYCK 

{Louvre) 


THE   MINT  167 

wedge  protruding  under  it  and,  in  winter,  Henri  IV. 
riding  proudly  above.  In  summer,  as  Mr.  Dexter's 
drawing  shows,  he  is  hidden  by  leaves.  A  basin  has 
been  constructed  at  this  point  from  which  the  tide  is 
excluded,  and  here  are  washing  houses  and  swimming 
baths ;   for  Parisians,  having  a  river,  use  it. 

The  Hotel  des  Monnaies,  close  by  the  Beaux  Arts,  is 
another  surprise.  One  would  expect  in  such  a  country 
as  France,  with  its  meticulously  exact  control  of  its 
public  offices,  that  its  Mint,  the  institution  in  which  its 
money  was  made,  would  be  a  miracle  of  precision  and 
efficiency.  Efficiency  it  may  have ;  but  its  proceedings 
are  casual  beyond  belief :  the  workmen  in  the  furnaces 
loaf  and  smoke  and  stare  at  the  visitors  and  exchange 
comments  on  them;  the  floors  are  cluttered  up  with 
lumber;  the  walls  are  dirty;  the  doors  do  not  fit.  A 
very  considerable  amount  of  work  seems  to  be  accom- 
plished —  there  are  machines  constantly  in  movement 
which  turn  out  scores  of  coins  a  minute,  not  only  for 
France  but  for  her  few  and  dispiriting  colonies  and 
for  other  countries;  and  yet  the  feeling  which  one 
has  is  that  France  here  is  noticeably  below  herself. 

I  was  shown  around  by  a  very  charming  attendant, 
who  handled  the  new  coins  as  though  he  loved  them 
and  took  precisely  that  pride  in  the  place  that  the 
Government  seems  to  lack.  The  design  on  the  French 
franc,  although  it  ought  to  be  cut,  I  think,  a  little 
deeper,  a  little  more  boldly,  is  very  attractive,  both 
obverse  and  reverse,  and  it  is  a  pleasant  sight  to  see  the 


168  A  WANDERER  IN  PARIS 

bright  creatures  tumbling  out  of  the  machine  as  fast  as 
one  can  count.  Pleasanter  still  is  it  to  the  frail  human 
eye  when  the  same  process  is  repeated  with  golden 
Louis'  —  basketfuls  of  which  stand  negligently  about 
as  though  it  were  the  cave  of  the  Forty  Thieves. 

An  Englishman's  perhaps  indiscreet  questions  as  to 
what  precautions  were  taken  to  prevent  leakage  amused 
the  guide  beyond  all  reason.  "  It  is  impossible,"  he 
said ;  "  the  coins  are  weighed.  They  must  correspond 
to  the  prescribed  weight."  "  But  who,"  my  countryman 
went  on,  in  the  relentless  English  way,  "checks  the 
weigher?"  "Another,"  said  the  guide.  "But  a  time 
must  come,"  continued  the  Briton,  who  probably  had  a 
business  of  his  own  and  had  suffered,  "  when  there  is  no 
one  left  to  check  —  when  the  last  man  of  all  is  officiat- 
ing :  how  then  ?  "  Our  guide  laughed  very  happily,  and 
repeated  that  there  were  no  thieves  there;  and  I  dare- 
say he  is  right.  "Perhaps,"  I  said,  to  the  English 
inquisitor,  "  perhaps,  like  assistants  in  sweet  shops,  they 
are  allowed  at  first  to  help  themselves  so  much  that  they 
acquire  a  disgust  for  money."  He  looked  at  me  with 
eyes  of  stone.  I  think  he  had  Scotch  blood.  "Per- 
haps," he  said  at  last. 

My  own  contribution  to  the  guide's  entertainment 
was  the  production,  before  a  machine  that  was  shooting 
five-franc  pieces  into  a  bowl  at  the  rate  of  one  a  second, 
of  the  four  bad  (demonetise)  coins  of  the  same  value 
which  had  been  forced  upon  me  during  the  few  days  I 
had  then  been   in  Paris.     They  gave  immense  delight. 


DEMONETISE  169 

Several  minters  (or  whatever  they  are  called)  stopped 
working  in  order  to  join  in  the  inspection.  It  was  the 
general  opinion  that  I  had  been  badly  treated :  although, 
of  course,  I  ought  to  have  known.  Three  of  the  coins 
were  simply  those  of  other  nations  no  longer  current  in 
France,  and  for  them  I  could  get  from  two  to  three 
francs  each  at  an  exchange.  Unless,  of  course,  a  man 
of  the  world  put  in,  I  liked  to  sell  them  to  a  waiter,  and 
then  I  should  get  perhaps  a  slightly  better  price.  "  Be 
careful,  however,"  said  he,  "  that  he  does  not  give  them 
back  to  you  in  the  next  change."  The  fourth  coin 
was  frankly  base  metal  and  ought  not  to  have  taken  in 
a  child.  That,  by  the  way,  was  given  to  me  at  a  Post 
Office,  the  one  under  the  Bourse,  and  I  find  that  Post 
Offices  are  notorious  for  this  habit  with  foreigners. 
The  minters  generally  agreed  that  it  was  a  scandal, 
but  they  did  so  without  heat  —  bearing  indeed  this  mis- 
fortune (not  their  own)  very  much  as  their  countryman 
La  Rochefoucauld  had  observed  men  to  do. 

After  the  coins  we  saw  the  medal-stampers  at  work, 
each  seated  in  a  little  hole  in  the  ground  before  his 
press.  The  French  have  a  natural  gift  for  the  designing 
of  medals,  and  they  are  interested  in  them  as  souvenirs 
not  only  of  public  but  of  private  events  —  such  as  silver 
weddings,  birthdays  and  other  anniversaries.  Upstairs 
there  is  a  collection  of  medals  by  the  best  designers  — 
such  as  Rotz,  Patz,  Carial,  Chaplain,  Dupuis,  Dupre 
—  many  of  them  charming.  Here  also  are  collections  of 
the  world's  coinage  and  of  historical  French  medals. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE   LATIN   QUARTER 

Old  Prints  —  Procope,  Tortoni,  and  Le  Pere  Lunette  —  The  Luxem- 
bourg Palace  —  Rodin  —  Modern  Paintings  —  A  Sinister  Crypt  — 
A  Garden  of  Sculpture  —  The  Students  of  the  Latin  Quarter  — 
The  Sorbonne  —  A  Beautiful  Museum  —  The  Cluny's  Treasures  — 
Marat  and  Danton  —  Old  Streets  and  Dirty  —  The  River  Bievre  — 
Inspired  Topography  —  Dante  in  Paris. 

THE  high  road  from  the  centre  of  Paris  to  the 
Latin  Quarter  is  across  the  Pont  du  Carrousel 
and  up  the  narrow  Rue  Mazarin,  which  skirts  the 
Institut;  and  the  Rue  Mazarin  we  may  now  take  if 
only  for  its  old  print  shops,  not  the  least  interesting 
department  of  which  is  the  portfolios  containing 
students'  sketches,  some  of  them  very  good.  (I  might 
equally  have  said  some  of  them  very  bad.)  We  have 
seen  on  the  Quai  des  Celestins  the  site  of  one  of 
Moliere's  theatres :  here,  at  Nos.  12-14,  is  the  house  in 
which  he  established  his  first  theatre,  on  the  last  day  of 
1643.  The  Rue  Mazarin  runs  into  the  Rue  de  l'An- 
cienne  Comedie  Francaise,  at  No.  14  in  which  was  that 
theatre,  whose  successor  stands  at  the  foot  of  the  Rue 
Richelieu. 

Crossing  the  Boulevard  St.  Germain  we  climb  what 
170 


PROCOPE  AND  TORTONI  171 

is  now  the  Rue  de  l'Odeon  to  the  Place  and  theatre 
of  that  name,  with  the  statue  of  Augier  the  dramatist 
before  it.  The  Place  de  l'Odeon  demands  some  atten- 
tion, for  at  No.  1,  now  the  Cafe  Voltaire,  was  once  the 
famous  Cafe  Procope,  very  significant  in  the  eighteenth 
century,  the  resort  of  Voltaire  and  the  Encyclopaedists, 
and  later  of  the  Revolutionaries.  Camille  Desmoulins 
indeed  made  it  his  home.  You  may  see  within  port- 
raits of  these  old  famous  habitues.  Procopio,  a  Sicilian 
who  founded  his  establishment  for  the  shelter  of  poor 
actors  and  students  (whom  Paris  then  loathed  in  private 
life),  was  the  father  of  all  the  Paris  cafes. 

The  Cafe  Procope  was  to  men  of  intellect  what  some 
few  years  later  Tortoni's  was  to  men  of  fashion.  The 
Cafe  Tortoni  was  in  the  Boulevard  des  Italiens.  Let 
Captain  Gronow  tell  its  history :  "  About  the  commence- 
ment of  the  present  [nineteenth]  century,  Tortoni's,  the 
centre  of  pleasure,  gallantry  and  entertainment,  was 
opened  by  a  Neapolitan,  who  came  to  Paris  to  supply 
the  Parisians  with  good  ice.  The  founder  of  this  cele- 
brated cafe  was  by  name  Veloni,  an  Italian,  whose  father 
lived  with  Napoleon  from  the  period  he  invaded  Italy, 
when  First  Consul,  down  to  his  fall.  Young  Veloni 
brought  with  him  his  friend  Tortoni,  an  industrious  and 
intelligent  man.  Veloni  died  of  an  affection  of  the 
lungs,  shortly  after  the  cafe  was  opened,  and  left  the 
business  to  Tortoni ;  who,  by  dint  of  care,  economy  and 
perseverance,  made  his  cafe  renowned  all  over  Europe. 
Towards  the  end  of  the  first  Empire,  and  during  the 


172  A  WANDERER   IN   PARIS 

return  of  the  Bourbons,  and  Louis  Philippe's  reign,  this 
establishment  was  so  much  in  vogue  that  it  was  difficult 
to  get  an  ice  there;  after  the  opera  and  theatres  were 
over,  the  Boulevards  were  literally  choked  up  by  the 
carriages  of  the  great  people  of  the  court  and  the  Fau- 
bourg St.  Germain  bringing  guests  to  Tortoni's. 

"In  those  days  clubs  did  not  exist  in  Paris,  conse- 
quently the  gay  world  met  there.  The  Duchess  of 
Berri,  with  her  suite,  came  nearly  every  night  incognito ; 
the  most  beautiful  women  Paris  could  boast  of,  old 
maids,  dowagers,  and  old  and  young  men,  pouring  out 
their  sentimental  twaddle,  and  holding  up  to  scorn  their 
betters,  congregated  here.  In  fact,  Tortoni's  became 
a  sort  of  club  for  fashionable  people ;  the  saloons  were 
completely  monopolised  by  them,  and  became  the  ren- 
dezvous of  all  that  was  gay,  and  I  regret  to  add,  immoral. 

"  Gunter,  the  eldest  son  of  the  founder  of  the  house 
in  Berkeley  Square,  arrived  in  Paris  about  this  period, 
to  learn  the  art  of  making  ice;  for  prior  to  the  peace, 
our  London  ices  and  creams  were  acknowledged,  by  the 
English  as  well  as  foreigners,  to  be  detestable.  In  the 
early  part  of  the  day,  Tortoni's  became  the  rendezvous 
of  duellists  and  retired  officers,  who  congregated  in 
great  numbers  to  breakfast;  which  consisted  of  cold 
pates,  game,  fowl,  fish,  eggs,  broiled  kidneys,  iced 
champagne,  and  liqueurs  from  every  part  of  the  globe. 

"Though  Tortoni  succeeded  in  amassing  a  large 
fortune,  he  suddenly  became  morose,  and  showed  evi- 
dent signs  of  insanity :  in  fact,  he  was  the  most  unhappy 


THE   GREAT   RESTAURATEURS         173 

man  on  earth.  On  going  to  bed  one  night,  he  said  to 
the  lady  who  superintended  the  management  of  his  cafe, 
'It  is  time  for  me  to  have  done  with  the  world.'  The 
lady  thought  lightly  of  what  he  said,  but  upon  quitting 
her  apartment  on  the  following  morning,  she  was  told 
by  one  of  the  waiters  that  Tortoni  had  hanged  himself." 

Someone  should  write  a  book  —  but  perhaps  it  has 
been  done  —  on  the  great  restaurateurs.  Paris  would, 
of  course,  provide  the  lion's  share ;  but  there  would  be 
plenty  of  material  to  collect  in  other  capitals.  The  life  of 
our  own  Nicol  of  the  Cafe  Royal,  for  example,  would  not 
be  without  interest ;  and  what  of  Sherry  and  Delmonico  ? 

While  on  the  subject  of  meeting-places  of  remark- 
able persons,  I  might  say  that  a  latter-day  resort  of 
intellectuals  who  have  allowed  the  world  and  its  tempta- 
tions to  be  too  much  for  them  is  not  so  very  far  away 
from  us  at  this  point  —  the  cabaret  of  Le  Pere  Lunette  at 
No.  4  Rue  des  Anglais.  I  do  not  say  that  this  is  a 
modern  Procope,  but  it  has  some  of  the  same  character- 
istics :  men  of  genius  have  met  here  and  illustrious  por- 
traits are  on  the  wall ;  but  they  are  not  frescoes  such  as 
could  be  included  in  this  book,  for  old  Father  Spectacles 
puts  satire  before  propriety. 

In  the  colonnade  round  the  Odeon  theatre  are  book- 
stalls, chiefly  offering  new  books  at  very  low  rates.  We 
emerge  on  the  south  side  in  the  Rue  Vaugiraud,  with 
the  Medicis  fountain  of  the  Luxembourg  just  across  the 
road.  The  Luxembourg  Palace  was  built  by  Marie  de 
Medicis,  the  widow  of  Henri  IV.,  and  it  fulfilled  the 


174  A  WANDERER   IN   PARIS 

functions  of  a  palace  until  the  Revolution,  when,  prisons 
being  more  important  than  palaces,  it  became  a  prison. 
Among  those  conveyed  hither  were  the  Vicomte  de 
Beauharnais  and  his  wife  Josephine,  who  was  destined 
one  day  to  be  anything  but  a  prisoner.  After  the 
Revolution  the  Luxembourg  became  the  Palace  of  the 
Directoire  and  then  the  Palace  of  the  First  Consul.  In 
1800  Napoleon  moved  to  the  Tuileries,  and  a  little  while 
afterwards  he  established  the  Senate  here,  and  here  it  is 
still.  I  cannot  describe  the  Palace,  for  I  have  never 
been  in  it,  but  the  Musee  I  know  well. 

The  Luxembourg  galleries  are  dedicated  to  modern 
art.  They  have  nothing  earlier  than  the  nineteenth 
century,  and  may  be  said  to  carry  on  the  history  of 
French  painting  from  the  point  where  it  is  left  in  Room 
VIII.  at  the  Louvre,  while  little  is  quite  so  modern  as 
the  permanent  portion  of  the  Petit  Palais.  One  plunges 
from  the  street  directly  into  a  hall  of  very  white  sculp- 
ture, which  for  the  moment  affects  the  sight  almost  like 
the  beating  wings  of  gulls.  The  difference  between 
French  and  English  sculpture,  which  is  largely  the  differ- 
ence between  nakedness  and  nudity,  literally  assaults 
the  eye  for  the  moment;  and  then  the  more  beautiful 
work  quietly  begins  to  assert  itself  —  Rodin's  "  Pensee," 
on  the  left,  holding  the  attention  first  and  gently  sooth- 
ing the  bewildered  vision.  Rodin  indeed  dominates  this 
room,  for  here  are  not  only  his  "  Pensee  "  (the  "  Penseur  " 
is  not  so  very  far  away,  two  hundred  yards  or  so,  at  the 
Pantheon),   but   his   "John   the   Baptist,"   gaunt   and 


LE  BAISER 

RODIN 

(Luxembourg) 


RODIN  175 

urgent  in  the  wilderness  (with  Dubois'  "John  the 
Baptist  as  a  boy  "  near  by,  to  show  from  what  material 
prophets  are  evolved)  and  the  exquisite  "Danaides" 
and  the  "Age  d'Arain,"  and  the  giant  heads  of  Hugo 
and  Rochefort,  and  the  little  delicate  sensitive  Don 
Quixotic  head  of  Dalou  the  sculptor,  which  has  just 
been  added,  and  the  George  Wyndham  and  the  G.B.S. 
and  other  recent  portraits ;  while  through  the  doorway 
to  the  next  room  one  sees  the  "  Baiser,"  immense  and 
passionate.  I  reproduce  here  the  "Baiser"  and  the 
"Pensee,"  opposite  page  46. 

Other  work  here  that  one  recalls  is  the  charming 
group  by  Fremiet,  "  Pan  and  the  Bear  Cubs,"  Dubois' 
fascinating  "Florentine  Singing-boy  of  the  Fifteenth 
Century,"  a  peasant  by  Dalou,  a  great  Dane  and  puppies 
by  Le  Courtier,  and  the  very  beautiful  head  in  the 
doorway  to  Room  I.  —  "  Femme  de  Marin,"  by  Cazin 
the  painter.     But  other  visitors,  other  tastes,  of  course. 

Before  entering  Room  I.  there  are  two  small  rooms  on 
the  right  of  the  sculpture  gallery  which  should  be  en- 
tered, one  given  up  to  the  more  famous  Impressionists 
and  one  to  foreign  work.  The  chief  Impressionists  are 
Degas,  Renoir,  Monet,  Sisley  and  their  companions,  al- 
most all  of  whom  seem  to  me  to  have  painted  better  else- 
where than  here.  Monet's  "  Yachts  in  the  River  "  rise 
before  me  as  I  write  with  the  warm  sun  upon  them,  and 
I  still  see  in  the  mind's  eye  the  torso  of  a  young  woman 
by  Legros:  but  this  room  always  depresses  me,  the 
effect  largely  I  believe  of  the  antipathetic  Renoir.     The 


176  A  WANDERER   IN  PARIS 

other  room  has  a  floating  population.  Recently  the 
painters  have  been  Belgian:  but  at  another  time  they 
may  be  German  or  English,  when  the  Belgians  will  re- 
cede to  the  cellars  or  be  lent  to  provincial  galleries. 

The  pictures  in  the  Luxembourg  are  many,  but  the 
arresting  hand  is  too  seldom  extended.  Cleverness, 
the  bane  of  French  art,  dominates.  In  the  first  room 
Rodin's  "Baiser"  is  greater  than  any  painting;  but 
Harpignies'  "Lever  de  Lune"  is  here,  and  here  also  is 
one  of  Pointelin's  sombre  desolate  moorlands.  In  a 
glass  case  some  delicate  bowls  by  Dammouse  are  worth 
attention ;  but  I  think  his  work  at  the  Arts  Decoratifs 
at  the  Louvre  is  better.  The  second  room  is  notable 
for  the  Fantin-Latour  drawings  in  the  middle,  with 
others  by  Flandrin  and  Meissonier ;  the  third  for  Caro- 
lus-Duran's  "  Vieux  Lithographe  "  and  a  case  of  draw- 
ings by  modern  black  and  white  masters,  including 
Legros  and  Steinlen ;  here  also  is  another  Pointelin.  In 
Room  IV.  is  a  coast  scene  —  "  Les  Falaises  de  Sotteville, 
in  a  lovely  evening  light,  by  Bouland,  which  falls  short  of 
perfection  but  is  very  grateful  to  the  eyes.  In  Room 
V.  is  a  portrait  group  by  Fantin-Latour  recalling  the 
"  Hommage  a  Delacroix,"  which  we  saw  in  the  Collec- 
tion Moreau,  but  less  interesting.  The  studio  is  that  of 
Manet  at  Batignolles.  Here  also  is  a  beautiful  snow 
scene  by  Cazin  —  an  oasis  indeed.  In  Room  VI.  we 
find  Cazin  again  with  "  Ishmael,"  and  two  sweet  and 
misty  Carrieres,  a  powerful  if  hard  Legros,  Carolus- 
Duran's  portrait  of  the  ruddy  Papa  Francais  the  painter, 


LUXEMBOURG   PICTURES  177 

Blanche's  vivid  group  of  the  Thaulow  family,  with  the 
gigantic  Fritz  bringing  the  strength  of  a  bull-fighter 
to  the  execution  of  one  of  his  tender  landscapes,  and 
finally  Whistler's  portrait  of  his  mother,  which  I  repro- 
duce opposite  page  294  —  one  of  the  most  restful  and 
gentlest  deeds  of  his  restless,  irritable  life. 

Room  VII.  is  remarkable  for  Rodin's  "  Bellona  "  and 
Tissot's  curious  exercises  in  the  genre  of  W.  P.  Frith  — 
the  story  of  the  Prodigal  Son.  But  the  picture  which 
I  remember  most  clearly  and  with  most  pleasure  is 
Victor  Mottez's  "  Portrait  of  Madame  M.,"  which  has  a 
deep  quiet  beauty  that  is  very  rare  in  this  gallery.  In 
the  same  room,  placed  opposite  each  other,  although 
probably  not  with  any  conscious  ironical  intention,  are 
a  large  scene  in  the  Franco-Prussian  War  by  De  Neu- 
ville,  and  Carriere's  "  Christ  on  the  Cross."     In  Room 

VIII.  are  a  number  of  meretricious  Moreaus,  Caro-Del- 
valle's  light  and,  to  me,  oddly  attractive,  group,  "  Ma 
Femme  et  ses  Sceurs,"  and  the  portrait  of  Mile.  Moreno 
of  the  Comedie  Francaise  by  Granie,  which  is  repro- 
duced opposite  page  308,  a  picture  with  fascination 
rather  than  genius. 

In  the  doorway  between  Room  VIII.  and  Room  IX. 
hangs  a  small  water-colour  by  Harpignies,  but  in  Room 

IX.  itself  is  nothing  that  I  can  recollect.  Room  X.  has 
Picard's  charming  "Femme  qui  passe,"  Harpignies' 
Coliseum,  very  like  a  Moreau  Corot  and  a  Flandrin ; 
and  in  Room  XI.  are  Bastien  Lepage's  "  Portrait  of  M. 
Franck,"  Le  Sidaner's  "Dessert,"  Vollon's  "Port  of 


178  A   WANDERER   IN   PARIS 

Antwerp,"  very  beautiful,  and  Carolus-Duran's  famoua 
portrait  of  "  Madame  G.  E.  and  her  children." 

On  leaving  the  Musee  it  is  worth  while  to  take  a 
few  steps  more  to  the  left,  for  they  bring  us  to  another 
sinister  souvenir  of  the  Reign  of  Terror  —  to  St.  Joseph 
des  Carmes,  the  Chapel  of  the  Carmelite  monastery  in 
which,  in  September,  1792,  the  Abbe  Sicard  and  other 
priests  who  had  refused  to  take  the  oath  of  the  Con- 
stitution were  imprisoned  and  massacred,  as  described 
by  Carlyle  in  Book  I.,  Chapters  IV.  and  V.  of  "The 
Guillotine,"  with  the  assistance  of  the  narrative  of  one 
of  the  survivors,  Mon  Agonie  de  Trent-Huit  Heures, 
by  Jourgniac  Saint-Meard.  In  the  crypt  one  is  shown 
not  only  the  tombs  but  traces  of  the  massacre. 

A  walk  in  the  Luxembourg  gardens  would,  if  one 
had  been  nowhere  else,  quickly  satisfy  the  stranger  as 
to  the  interest  of  the  French  in  the  more  remarkable 
children  of  their  country.  In  these  gardens  alone  are 
statues,  among  many  others,  in  honour  of  Chopin, 
Watteau,  Delacroix,  Sainte  Beuve,  Le  Play  the  econ- 
omist, Fabre  the  poet,  Georges  Sand,  Henri  Murger,  the 
novelist  of  the  adjacent  Latin  Quarter,  and  Theodore 
de  Banville,  the  modern  maker  of  ballades  and  prime 
instigator  of  some  of  the  most  charming  work  in  French 
form  by  Mr.  Lang  and  Mr.  Dobson  and  W.  E.  Henley. 
There  are  countless  other  statues  of  mythological  and 
allegorical  figures,  some  of  them  very  striking.  One 
of  the  most  interesting  of  all  is  the  "Marchand  de 
Masques  "  by  Astruc,  among  the  masks  offered  for  sale 
being  those  of  Corot,  Dumas,  Berlioz  and  Balzac. 


THE   SOUTHERN  HEIGHTS  179 

The  Luxembourg  gardens  lead  to  the  Avenue  de 
l'Observatoire,  a  broad  and  verdant  pleasaunce  with  a 
noble  fountain  at  the  head,  in  the  midst  of  which  an 
armillary  sphere  is  held  up  by  four  undraped  female 
figures  representing  the  four  quarters  of  the  globe,  at 
whom  a  circle  of  tortoises  spout  water  from  the  surface  of 
the  basin.  Beneath  the  upholders  of  the  sphere  are  eight 
spirited  sea  horses  by  Fremiet,  the  sculptor  who  de- 
signed "  Pan  and  the  Bear  Cubs  "  in  the  Luxembourg. 

A  few  yards  to  the  west  of  this  fountain  is  one  of 
the  simplest  and  most  satisfying  of  Parisian  sculptured 
memorials,  at  the  corner  of  the  Rue  d'Assas  and  the 
Boulevard  de  l'Observatoire  —  the  bas-relief  on  the  Tar- 
nier  maternity  hospital,  representing  the  benevolent 
Tarnier  in  his  merciful  work. 

Let  us  nqw  descend  the  Boulevard  St.  Michel  to  the 
Sorbonne,  which  is  the  heart  of  the  Latin  Quarter  (or 
perhaps  the  brain  would  be  the  better  word),  disregard- 
ing for  the  moment  the  Pantheon,  and  turning  our  backs 
on  the  Observatoire  and  the  Lion  de  Belfort,  in  the 
streets  around  which,  every  September,  the  noisiest  of 
the  Parisian  fairs  rages,  and  on  the  Bal  Bullier,  where  the 
shop  assistants  of  this  neighbourhood  grasp  each  other 
in  the  dance  every  Thursday  and  Sunday  night.  Not 
that  this  high  Southern  district  of  Paris  is  not  interest- 
ing; but  it  is  far  less  interesting  than  certain  parts 
nearer  the  Seine,  and  this  book  may  not  be  too  long. 

The  Sorbonne  is  not  exciting,  but  it  is  not  unamus- 
ing  to  watch  young  France  gaining  knowledge.  I  have 
called  it  the  heart  of  the  Latin  Quarter,  although  when 


180  A  WANDERER  IN  PARIS 

one  thinks  of  the  necessitous,  irresponsible  youthful 
populace  of  these  slopes,  it  is  rather  in  a  studio  than  in 
a  lecture  centre  that  one  would  fix  its  cardiac  energy. 
That,  however,  is  the  fault  of  Du  Maurier  and  Murger ; 
for  I  suppose  that  for  every  artist  that  the  Latin  Quarter 
fosters  it  has  scores  of  other  students.  But  here  I  am 
in  unknown  territory.  This  book,  which  describes  (as 
I  warned  you)  Paris  wholly  from  without,  is  never  so 
external  as  among  the  young  bloods  who  are  to  be  met 
at  night  in  the  Cafe  Harcourt,  or  who  dance  at  the 
annual  ball  of  the  Quatz  Arts,  or  plunge  themselves  into 
congenial  riots  when  unpopular  professors  mount  the 
platform.  I  know  them  not;  I  merely  rejoice  in  their 
existence,  admire  their  long  hair  and  high  spirits  and 
happy  indigence,  and  wish  I  could  join  them  among 
Jullien's  models,  or  in  the  disreputable  cabaret  of  Le 
Pere  Lunette,  or  at  a  solemn  disputation,  such  as  that 
famous  one  in  which  the  sophist  Buridan,  after  being 
thrown  into  the  Seine  in  a  sack  and  rescued,"  maintained 
for  a  whole  day  the  thesis  that  it  was  lawful  to  slay  a 
Queen  of  France." 

The  Sorbonne  takes  its  name  from  Robert  de  Sorbon, 
the  confessor  of  St.  Louis,  who  had  suffered  much  as 
a  theological  student  and  wished  others  to  suffer  less; 
for  students  in  his  day  existed  absolutely  on  charity. 
St.  Louis  threw  himself  into  his  confessor's  scheme,  and 
the  Sorbonne,  richly  endowed,  was  opened  in  1253,  in  its 
original  form  occupying  a  site  in  a  street  with  the  de- 
pressing name  of  Coupe-Gueule.     From  a  hostel  it  soon 


ippii9«P| 


THE    FONTAINE    1>E    MEDICIS 

(GARDEN    OF    THE    LUXEMBOURG) 


THE   SORBONNE  181 

became  the  Church's  intellect,  and  for  five  and  a  half 
centuries  it  thus  existed,  almost  continually,  I  regret  to 
say,  pursuing  what  Gibbon  calls  "  the  exquisite  rancour 
of  theological  hatred."  Its  hostility  to  Joan  of  Arc  and 
the  Reformation  were  alike  intense.  Richelieu  built 
the  second  Sorbonne,  on  the  site  of  the  present  one. 
The  Revolution  in  its  short  sharp  way  put  an  end  to  it 
as  a  defender  of  the  faith,  and  in  1808,  under  Napoleon, 
it  sprang  to  life  again  with  a  broader  and  humaner 
programme  as  the  Universite  de  France. 

Although  arriving  on  the  wrong  day  (a  very  easy 
thing  to  do  in  Paris)  I  induced  the  concierge  to  show 
me  Puvis  de  Chavannes'  vast  and  beautiful  fresco  in  the 
Sorbonne's  amphitheatre,  entitled  "  La  Source "  — 
which  is,  I  take  it,  the  spring  of  wisdom.  Thursday  is 
the  right  day.  In  the  chapel  is  the  tomb  of  Richelieu,  a 
florid  monument  with  the  dying  cardinal  and  some  very 
ostentatious  grief  upon  it.  Near  by  stands  an  elderly 
gentleman  who  charges  twice  as  much  for  postcards  as 
the  dealers  outside ;  but  one  must  not  mind  that.  The 
church  is  not  impressive,  nor  has  a  recent  meretricious 
work  by  Weerts,  representing  the  Love  of  Humanity 
and  the  Love  of  Country  —  the  crucified  Christ  and  a 
dead  soldier  —  done  it  much  good.  Before  it  is  a  monu- 
ment to  Auguste  Comte. 

And  now  let  us  descend  the  hill  and  cheer  and  enrich 
our  eyes  in  one  of  the  most  remarkable  museums  in  the 
world  —  the  Cluny.  Paris  is  too  fortunate.  To  have 
the  Louvre  were  enough  for  any  city,  but  Paris  also  has 


182  A   WANDERER  IN   PARIS 

the  Carnavalet.  To  have  the  Carnavalet  were  enough, 
but  Paris  also  has  the  Cluny.  The  Musee  de  Cluny 
is  devoted  chiefly  to  applied  art  and  is  a  treasury  of 
medieval  taste.  It  is  an  ancient  building,  standing  on 
the  site  of  a  Roman  palace,  the  ruins  of  whose  baths 
still  remain.  The  present  mansion  was  built  by  a 
Benedictine  abbot  in  the  fifteenth  century:  it  became 
a  storehouse  of  beautiful  and  rare  objects  in  1833,  when 
the  collector  Alphonse  du  Sommerard  bought  it;  and 
on  his  death  the  nation  acquired  both  the  house  and 
its  treasures,  which  have  been  steadily  increasing  ever 
since.  Without,  the  Cluny  is  a  romantic  blend  of  late 
Gothic  and  Renaissance  architecture:  within,  it  is  like 
the  heaven  of  a  good  arts-and-craftsman ;  or,  to  put  it 
another  way,  like  an  old  curiosity  shop  carried  out  to  the 
highest  power.  I  do  not  say  that  we  have  not  as  good 
collections  at  South  Kensington ;  but  it  is  beyond  doubt 
that  the  Cluny  has  a  more  attractive  setting  for  them. 
To  particularise  would  merely  be  to  convert  these 
pages  into  an  incomplete  catalogue  (and  what  is  duller 
than  that?),  but  I  may  say  that  one  passes  among 
sculpture  and  painting,  altar  pieces  and  knockers,  pottery 
and  tapestry,  Spanish  leather  and  lace,  gold  work  and 
glass,  enamel  and  musical  instruments,  furniture  (the 
state  bed  of  Francis  I.)  and  ivories  (note  those  by  Van 
Opstal),  ironwork  and  jewels,  fireplaces  and  exquisite 
slippers.  Th£  old  keys  alone  are  worth  hours :  some  of 
them  might  almost  be  called  jewels ;  be  sure  to  look  at 
Nos.  6001  and  6022.     Everything  is  remarkable.     Writ- 


THE   CLUNY  183 

ing  in  London,  in  a  thick  fog,  at  some  distance  of  time 
since  I  saw  theCluny  last,  I  remember  most  vividly  those 
keys  and  a  banc  d'orfevre  near  them ;  a  chimney-piece, 
beautiful  and  vast,  from  an  old  house  at  Chalons-sur- 
Marne ;  certain  carvings  in  wood  in  the  great  room  next 
the  Thermes:  the  "Quatre  Pleurants"  of  Claus  de 
Worde;  a  dainty  Marie  Madeleine  by  a  Fleming,  about 
1500  (there  is  another  Marie  Madeleine,  in  stone,  in  an 
adjacent  room,  kneeling  with  her  alabaster  box  of  oint- 
ment, but  by  no  means  penitent) ;  and  the  Jesus  on  the 
Mount  of  Olives  with  the  sleeping  disciples.  I  remem- 
ber also,  in  one  of  the  faience  galleries,  two  delightful 
groups  by  Clodion  —  a  "  Satyre  male  "  with  two  baby 
goat-feet  playing  by  him,  and  a  "  Satyre  femelle,"  very 
charming,  also  with  two  little  shaggy  mites  at  her  knees. 
The  "  Fils  de  Rubens,"  in  his  little  chair,  is  also  a  pleas- 
ant memory;  and  there  is  one  of  those  remarkable 
Neapolitan  reconstructions  of  the  Nativity,  of  which  the 
museum  at  Munich  has  such  an  amazing  collection  — 
perhaps  the  prettiest  toys  ever  made. 

But  as  I  have  said,  the  Cluny  is  wonderful  through- 
out, and  it  is  almost  ridiculous  to  particularise.  It  is 
also  too  small  for  every  taste.  For  the  lover  of  the 
hues  that  burn  in  Rhodian  ware  it  is  most  memorable 
for  its  pottery;  while  of  the  many  Parisians  who  visit 
it  in  holiday  mood  a  large  percentage  make  first  for  the 
glass  case  that  contains  its  two  famous  ceintures. 

The  Curator  of  the  Carnavalet,  as  we  have  seen,  is 
a  topographer  and  antiquary  of  distinction ;  the  Director 


184  A  WANDERER  IN  PARIS 

of  the  Cluny,  M.  Haraucourt,  is  a  poet,  one  of  whose 
ballads  will  be  found  in  English  form  in  a  later  chapter. 
He  is  in  a  happy  environment,  although  his  Muse  does 
not  look  back  quite  as,  say,  Mr.  Dobson's  loves  to  do. 
The  singer  of  the  "  Pompadour's  Fan  "  and  the  "  Old 
Sedan  Chair"  would  be  continually  inspired  at  the 
Cluny. 

In  the  Gardens  of  the  Musee  we  can  feel  ourselves  in 
very  early  times ;  for  the  baths  are  the  ruins  of  a  Roman 
palace  built  in  306,  the  home  for  a  while  of  Julian  the 
Apostate;  a  temple  of  Mercury  stood  on  the  hill  where 
the  Pantheon  now  is;  and  a  Roman  road  ran  on  the 
site  of  the  Rue  St.  Jacques,  just  at  the  east  of  the  Cluny, 
leading  out  of  Paris  southwards  to  Italy. 

On  leaving  the  Cluny  let  us  take  a  few  steps  westward 
along  the  Rue  de  l'Ecole  de  Medicine,  and  stop  at  No. 
15,  where  the  Cordeliers'  Club  was  held,  whither  Marat's 
body  was  brought  to  lie  in  state.  His  house,  in  which 
Charlotte  Corday  stabbed  him,  was  close  by,  where 
the  statue  of  Broca  now  stands.  In  the  Boulevard  St. 
Germain,  at  the  end  of  the  street,  we  come  to  Danton's 
statue  and  more  memories  of  the  Revolution.  "What 
souvenirs  of  the  past,"  says  Sardou,  "  does  the  statue  of 
Danton  cast  his  shadow  upon.  At  No.  87  Boulevard 
St.  Germain — where  the  woman  Simon  keeps  house  !  it 
was  the  31st  March,  1793  —  at  six  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing, the  rattling  of  the  butt  ends  of  muskets  was  heard 
on  the  pavement  in  the  midst  of  wild  cries  and  protesta- 
tions of  the  crowd,  they  had  dared  to  arrest  Danton, 


MEDIEVAL   RELICS  185 

the  Titan  of  the  Revolution,  the  man  of  the  10th  of 
August !  —  at  the  same  time  on  the  Place  de  l'Odeon, 
at  the  corner  of  the  Rue  Crebillon,  Camille  Desmoulins 
had  been  arrested.  An  hour  later  they  were  both  in 
the  Luxembourg  prison,  and  it  was  there  Camille  heard 
of  the  death  of  his  mother. 

"  The  Passage  du  Commerce  still  exists.  It  is  a  most 
picturesque  old  quarter,  rarely  visited  by  Parisians.  At 
No.  9  is  Durel's  library,  where  Guillotin  in  1790  prac- 
tised cutting  off  sheep's  heads  with '  his  philanthropic  be- 
heading machine.'  It  is  generally  given  out  that  he  was 
guillotined  himself,  but '  Lempriere '  says  he  died  quietly 
in  his  bed,  of  grief  at  the  infamous  abuse  his  instru- 
ment was  put  to.  In  the  shop  close  by  was  the  print- 
ing office  of  the  VAmi  du  Peuple,  and  Marat  in  his 
dressing-gown  (lined  with  imitation  panther  skin)  used 
to  come  and  correct  the  proofs  of  his  bloody  journal." 

Between  the  Cluny  and  the  river  is  a  network  of 
very  old,  squalid  and  interesting  streets.  Here  the 
students  of  the  middle  ages  found  both  their  schools 
and  their  lodgings:  among  them  Dante  himself,  who 
refers  to  the  Rue  de  Fouarre  (or  straw,  on  which,  follow- 
ing the  instructions  of  Pope  Urban  V.,  the  students  sat) 
as  the  Vico  degli  Strami.  It  has  now  been  demolished. 
The  two  churches  here  are  worth  a  visit  —  St.  Severin 
and  St.  Julien-le-Pauvre,  but  the  reader  is  warned  that 
the  surroundings  are  not  too  agreeable.  In  the  court  ad- 
joining St.  Julien's  are  traces  of  the  wall  of  Philip  Augus- 
tus, of  which  we  saw  something  at  the  Mont  de  Picte. 


186  A  WANDERER  IN  PARIS 

All  these  streets,  as  I  say,  are  picturesque  and  dirty, 
but  I  think  the  best  is  the  Rue  de  Bievre,  which  runs 
up  the  hill  of  St.  Etienne  from  the  Quai  de  Montebello, 
opposite  the  Morgue,  and  can  be  gained  from  St.  Julien's 
by  the  dirty  Rue  de  la  Boucherie,  of  which  this  street 
and  its  westward  continuation,  the  Rue  de  la  Huchette, 
Huysmans,  the  French  novelist  and  mystic,  writes  — 
as  of  all  this  curious  district  —  in  his  book,  La  Bievre  et 
Saint  Severin,  one  of  the  best  examples  of  imaginative 
topography  that  I  know.  Let  us  see  what  he  says  of 
the  Bievre,  the  little  river  which  gives  the  street  its 
name  and  which  once  tumbled  down  into  the  Seine  at 
this  point,  but  is  now  buried  underground  like  the  New 
River  at  Islington. 

"  The  Bievre,"  he  writes,  "  represents  to-day  one  of  the 
most  perfect  symbols  of  feminine  misery  exploited  by  a 
big  city.  Originating  in  the  lake  or  pond  of  St.  Quentin 
near  de  Trappes,  it  runs  quietly  and  slowly  through  the 
valley  that  bears  its  name.  Like  many  young  girls  from 
the  country,  directly  it  arrives  in  Paris  the  Bievre  falls 
a  victim  to  the  cunning  wide-awake  industry  of  a  catcher 
of  men.  .  .  .  To  follow  all  her  windings,  it  is  necessary 
to  ascend  the  Rue  du  Moulin  des  Pres  and  enter  the  Rue 
de  Gentilly,  and  then  the  most  extraordinary  and  unsus- 
pected journey  begins.  In  the  middle  of  this  street  a 
square  door  opens  on  a  prison  corridor  black  as  a  sooty 
chimney  and  not  wide  enough  for  two  abreast :  this  is  the 
alley  of  the  Reculettes,  an  old  lane  of  ancient  Paris.  It 
ends  in  the  Rue  Croulebarbe,  in  a  delightful  landscape 
where  one  of  the  arms,  remaining  nearly  free,  of  the 


LA  bohemienne 

FRANZ    HALS 

{Louvre) 


A  LOST  RIVER  187 

Bievre  appears.     Then  under  a  little  tunnel  the  Bievre 
disappears  again.  .  .  . 

"To  find  the  mournful  river  once  more  you  must 
pass  in  front  of  the  tapestry  manufactory  in  the  Rue 
des  Gobelins.  .  .  . 

"The  Rue  des  Gobelins  leads  to  a  little  bridge 
bordered  with  a  fence ;  this  little  bridge  stretches  across 
the  Bievre,  which  loses  itself  on  one  side  under  the 
Boulevards  Arago  and  Port  Royal  and  the  other  under 
the  Alley  of  the  Gobelins,  which  is  the  most  surprising 
corner  of  concealed  contemporary  Paris.  It  is  a  crooked 
alley  or  lane,  built  on  the  left  of  houses  that  are  cracked, 
bulging  out  and  falling.   .  .  ." 

Inspired  by  this  passage  I  set  out  one  day  to  trace 
the  Bievre  to  daylight,  but  it  was  a  cheerless  enterprise, 
for  the  Rue  Monge  is  a  dreary  street,  and  the  new 
Boulevards  hereabouts  are  even  drearier  because  they 
are  wider.  I  found  her  at  last,  by  peeping  through  a 
hoarding  in  the  Boulevard  Arago,  with  tanneries  on 
each  side  of  her ;  and  then  I  gave  it  up. 

At  the  Cluny  we  saw  the  Thermes,  a  visible  sign  of 
Roman  occupation;  in  the  Rue  Monge  is  another,  the 
amphitheatre,  still  in  very  good  condition,  with  the 
grass  growing  between  the  crevices  of  the  great  stone 
seats.  Returning  to  the  Rue  de  Bievre,  of  which  Mr. 
Dexter  has  made  so  alluring  a  picture,  let  us  remember 
that  Dante  in  exile  wrote  part  of  the  Divine  Comedy  in 
one  of  its  houses. 

And  now  for  the  Pantheon,  which  rises  above  us. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE    PANTHEON    AND    ST.    GENEVIEVE 

A  Church's  Vicissitudes  —  St.  Genevieve  —  A  Guardian  of  Paris  — 
Illustrious  Converts  —  The  Golden  Legend  —  A  Sabbath-breaker  — 
Genevieve's  Sacred  Body  —  Her  Tomb  —  The  Pantheon  Frescoes 
—  Joan  of  Arc  —  The  Pantheon  Tombs  —  Mirabeau  and  Marat  — 
Voltaire's  Funeral  —  The  Thoughts  of  the  Thinker  —  From  the 
Dome  —  St.  Etienne-du-Mont  —  The  Fate  of  St.  Genevieve  —  The 
Relic-hunters  —  The  Mystery  of  the  Wine-press. 

THE  Pantheon,  like  the  Madeleine,  has  had  its 
vicissitudes.  The  new  Madeleine,  as  we  shall 
see,  was  begun  by  Napoleon  as  a  splendid  Temple  of 
military  glory  and  became  a  church ;  the  new  Pantheon 
was  begun  by  Louis  XV.  as  a  splendid  cathedral  and 
became  a  Temple  of  Glory,  not,  however,  military  but 
civil.  Louis  XV.,  when  he  designed  its  erection  on  the 
site  of  the  old  church,  intended  it  to  be  the  church  of 
St.  Genevieve,  whose  tomb  was  its  proudest  possession ; 
when  the  Revolution  altered  all  that,  it  was  made 
secular  and  dedicated  "aux  grands  hommes  la  patrie 
reconnaissante,"  and  the  first  grand  homme  to  be  buried 
there  was  Mirabeau  (destined,  however,  not  to  remain 
a  grand  homme  very  long,  as  we  shall  see),  and  the  next 
Voltaire.     In  1806  Napoleon  made  it  a  church  again; 

188 


HOLY  SHEPHERDESSES  189 

in  1830  the  Revolutionaries  again  secularised  it;  in 
1851  it  was  consecrated  again,  and  in  1885  once  more 
it  became  secular,  to  receive  the  body  of  Victor  Hugo, 
and  secular  it  has  remained ;  and  considering  every- 
thing, secular  it  is  likely  to  be,  for  whatever  of  change 
and  surprise  the  future  holds  for  France,  an  excess  of 
ecclesiastical  ecstasy  is  hardly  probable. 

So  much  of  Louis  XV. 's  idea  remains,  in  spite  of  the 
perversion  of  his  purpose,  that  scenes  from  the  life  of 
St.  Genevieve  are  painted  on  the  Pantheon's  walls  and 
sculptured  on  its  facade;  while  in  its  last  sacred  days 
the  church  was  known  again  as  St.  Genevieve's.  Pos- 
sibly there  are  old  people  in  the  neighbourhood  who 
still  call  it  that.     I  hope  so. 

The  life  of  St.  Genevieve  as  told  in  The  Golden 
Legend  is  rather  a  series  of  facile  miracles  than  a  human 
document,  as  we  say.  She  was  born  in  the  fifth  century 
at  Nanterre  and  early  became  a  protegee  of  St.  Ger- 
main, who  vowed  her  to  chastity  and  holiness,  from 
which  she  never  departed.  Her  calling,  like  that  of 
her  new  companion  on  the  canon,  St.  Joan,  was  that 
of  shepherdess,  and  one  of  Puvis  de  Chavannes'  most 
charming  frescoes  in  the  Pantheon  represents  her  as  a 
shadowy  slip  of  a  girl  kneeling  to  a  crucifix  while  her 
sheep  graze  about  her.  I  reproduce  it  opposite  the  next 
page.  Her  mother,  who  had,  like  most  mothers,  a 
desire  that  her  daughter  should  marry  and  have  chil- 
dren, once  so  far  lost  her  temper  as  to  strike  Genevieve 
on  the    cheek;    for  which  offence  she  became  blind. 


190  A  WANDERER  IN  PARIS 

(A  very  comfortable  corner  of  heaven  is,  one  feels,  the 
due  of  the  mothers  of  saints.)  She  remained  blind  for 
a  long  time,  until  remembering  that  St.  Germain  had 
promised  for  her  daughter  miraculous  gifts,  she  sent  for 
Genevieve  and  was  magnanimously  cured.  After  the 
death  of  her  parent,  Genevieve  moved  to  Paris,  and  there 
she  lived  with  an  old  woman,  dividing  the  neighbourhood 
into  believers  and  unbelievers  in  her  sanctity,  as  is  ever 
the  way  with  saints.  Here  the  Devil  persecuted  and 
attacked  her  with  much  persistence  and  ingenuity,  but 
wholly  without  effect. 

During  her  long  life  she  made  Paris  her  principal 
home,  and  on  more  than  one  occasion  saved  it:  hence 
her  importance  not  only  to  the  Parisians,  who  set  her 
above  St.  Denis  (whom  she  reverenced),  but  to  this 
book.  Her  power  of  prayer  was  gigantic;  she  liter- 
ally prayed  Attila  the  Hun  out  of  his  siege  of  Paris, 
and  later,  when  Childeric  was  the  besieger  and  Paris 
was  starving,  she  brought  victuals  into  the  city  by  boat 
in  a  miraculous  way :  another  scene  chosen  by  Puvis  de 
Chavannes  in  his  Pantheon  series.  Childeric,  however, 
conquered,  in  spite  of  Genevieve,  but  he  treated  her  with 
respect  and  made  it  easy  for  her  to  approach  Clovis 
and  Clotilde  and  convert  them  to  Christianity  —  hence 
the  convent  of  St.  Genevieve,  which  Clovis  founded, 
remains  of  which  are  still  to  be  seen  by  the  church  of  St. 
Etienne-du-Mont,  in  the  two  streets  named  after  those 
early  Christians  —  the  Rue  Clovis  and  the  Rue  Clotilde. 
Christianity  had  been  introduced  into  Paris  by  Saint 


THE   SIMPLEST  LIFE  191 

Denis,  Genevieve's  hero,  in  the  third  century;  but  then 
came  a  reaction  and  the  new  faith  lost  ground.  It  was 
St.  Genevieve's  conversion  of  Clovis  that  re-established 
it  on  a  much  firmer  basis,  for  he  made  it  the  national 
religion. 

"This  holy  maid,"  says  Caxton,  "did  great  penance 
in  tormenting  her  body  all  her  life,  and  became  lean 
for  to  give  good  example.  For  sith  she  was  of  the  age 
of  fifteen  years,  unto  fifty,  she  fasted  every  day  save 
Sunday  and  Thursday.  In  her  refection  she  had  no- 
thing but  barley  bread,  and  sometime  beans,  the  which, 
sodden  after  fourteen  days  or  three  weeks,  she  ate  for 
all  delices.  Always  she  was  in  prayers  in  wakings  and 
in  penances,  she  drank  never  wine  ne  other  liquor,  that 
might  make  her  drunk,  in  all  her  life.  When  she  had 
lived  and  used  this  life  fifty  years,  the  bishops  that  were 
that  time,  saw  and  beheld  that  she  was  over  feeble  by 
abstinence  as  for  her  age,  and  warned  her  to  increase  a 
little  her  fare.  The  holy  woman  durst  not  gainsay 
them,  for  our  Lord  saith  of  the  prelates :  Who  heareth 
you  heareth  me,  and  who  despiseth  you  despiseth  me, 
and  so  she  began  by  obedience  to  eat  with  her  bread, 
fish  and  milk,  and  how  well  that,  she  so  did,  she  beheld 
the  heaven  and  wept,  whereof  it  is  to  believe  that  she 
saw  appertly  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ  after  the  promise 
of  the  gospel  that  saith  that,  Blessed  be  they  that  be 
clean  of  heart  for  they  shall  see  God ;  she  had  her  heart 
and  body  pure  and  clean." 

Caxton  also  tells  quaintly  the  story  of  one  of  the 


192  A  WANDERER   IN  PARIS 

first  miracles  performed  by  Genevieve's  tomb:  "An- 
other man  came  thither  that  gladly  wrought  on  the 
Sunday,  wherefor  our  Lord  punished  him,  for  his  hands 
were  so  benumbed  and  lame  that  he  might  not  work  on 
other  days.  He  repented  him  and  confessed  his  sin, 
and  came  to  the  tomb  of  the  said  virgin,  and  there 
honoured  and  prayed  devoutly,  and  on  the  morn  he 
returned  all  whole,  praising  and  thanking  our  Lord,  that 
by  the  worthy  merits  and  prayers  of  the  holy  virgin, 
grant  and  give  us  pardon,  grace,  and  joy  perdurable." 

To  St.  Genevieve's  tomb  we  shall  come  on  leaving 
the  Pantheon,  but  here  after  so  much  about  her  adven- 
tures when  alive  I  might  say  something  about  her 
adventures  when  dead.  She  was  buried  in  511  in  the 
Abbey  church  of  the  Holy  Apostles,  on  the  site  of 
which  the  Pantheon  stands.  Driven  out  by  the  Nor- 
mans, the  monks  removed  the  saint's  body  and  carried  it 
away  in  a  box ;  and  thereafter  her  remains  were  destined 
to  rove,  for  when  the  monks  returned  to  the  Abbey  they 
did  not  again  place  them  in  the  tomb  but  kept  them  in 
a  casket  for  use  in  processions  whenever  Paris  was  in 
trouble  and  needed  supernatural  help.  Meanwhile  her 
tomb,  although  empty,  continued  to  work  miracles  also. 

Early  in  the  seventeenth  century  her  bones  were  re- 
stored to  her  tomb,  which  was  made  more  splendid,  and 
there  they  remained  until  the  Revolution.  The  Revo- 
lutionists, having  no  use  for  saints,  opened  Genevieve's 
tomb,  burned  its  contents  on  the  Place  de  Greve,  and 
melted  the  gold  of  the  canopy  into  money.     They  also 


THE   MAID   IN  ART  193 

desecrated  the  church  of  St.  Etienne-du-Mont  (which 
we  are  about  to  visit)  and  made  it  a  Temple  of  Theo- 
philanthropy.  A  few  years  later  the  stone  coffer  was 
removed  to  St.  Etienne-du-Mont,  where  it  now  is,  gor- 
geously covered  with  Gothic  splendours ;  but  as  to  how 
minute  are  the  fragments  of  the  saint  that  it  contains 
which  must  have  been  overlooked  by  the  incendiary 
Revolutionaries,  I  cannot  say.  They  are  sufficient,  how- 
ever, still  to  cure  the  halt  and  the  lame  and  enable  them 
to  leave  their  crutches  behind. 

The  Pantheon  is  a  vast  and  dreary  building,  sadly  in 
need  of  a  little  music  and  incense  to  humanise  it.  The 
frescoes  are  interesting  —  those  of  Puvis  de  Chavannes 
in  particular,  although  a  trifle  too  wan  —  but  one  cannot 
shake  off  depression  and  chill.  The  Joan  of  Arc  paint- 
ings by  Lenepveu  are  the  least  satisfactory,  the  Maid 
of  this  artist  carrying  no  conviction  with  her.  But 
when  it  comes  to  that,  it  is  difficult  to  say  which  of  the 
Parisian  Maids  of  art  is  satisfactory :  certainly  not  the 
audacious  golden  Amazon  of  Fremiet  in  the  Place  de 
Rivoli.  Dubois'  figure  opposite  St.  Augustin's  is  more 
earnest  and  spiritual,  but  it  does  not  quite  realise  one's 
wishes.  I  think  that  I  like  best  the  Joan  in  the  Bou- 
levard Saint-Marcel,  behind  the  Jardin  des  Plantes. 

The  vault  of  the  Pantheon  may  be  seen  only  in  the 
company  of  a  guide,  and  there  is  a  charge.  To  be  quite 
sure  that  Rousseau  is  in  his  grave  is  perhaps  worth  the 
money;  but  one  resents  the  fee  none  the  less.  Great 
Frenchmen's    graves  —  especially    Victor    Hugo's  — 


194  A  WANDERER  IN  PARIS 

should  be  free  to  all.  There  is  no  eharge  at  the  Invalides. 
You  may  stand  beside  Heine's  tomb  in  the  Cimitiere 
de  Montmartre  without  money  and  without  a  guide,  but 
not  by  Voltaire's  in  the  Pantheon ;  Balzac's  grave  in 
Pere  Lachaise  is  free,  Zola's  in  the  Pantheon  costs 
seventy-five  centimes. 

The  guide  hurries  his  flock  from  one  vault  to  another, 
at  one  point  stopping  for  a  while  to  exchange  badinage 
with  an  echo.  Rousseau,  as  I  have  said,  is  here;  Vol- 
taire is  here;  here  are  General  Carnot,  President  Car- 
not  with  a  mass  of  faded  wreaths,  Soufflot,  who  designed 
the  Pantheon,  thinking  his  work  was  for  St.  Genevieve, 
and  who  died  of  anxiety  owing  to  a  subsidence  of  the 
walls,  Victor  Hugo,  and,  lately  moved  hither,  not  with- 
out turmoil  and  even  pistol  shots,  the  historian  of  the 
Rougon-Macquart  family  and  the  author  of  a  letter  of 
accusation  famous  in  history. 

Not  without  turmoil !  which  reminds  one  that  the 
Pantheon's  funerals  have  been  more  than  a  little  gro- 
tesque. I  said,  for  example,  that  Mirabeau  was  the  first 
prophet  of  reason  to  be  buried  here,  amid  a  concourse 
of  four  hundred  thousand  mourners ;  yet  you  may  look 
in  vain  for  his  tomb.  And  there  is  a  record  of  the 
funeral  of  Marat,  in  a  car  designed  by  David ;  yet  you 
may  look  in  vain  for  Marat's  sarcophagus  also.  The 
explanation  (once  more)  is  that  we  are  in  France,  the 
land  of  the  fickle  mob.  For  within  three  years  of  the 
state  burial  of  Mirabeau,  with  the  National  Guard  on 
duty,  the  Convention  directed  that  he  should  be  ex- 


STE.  GENEVIEVE 

PUVIS   DE   CHAVANNES 
{Pantheon) 


VOLTAIRE'S   RUINED   OBSEQUIES      195 

humed  and  Marat  laid  in  his  place.  Mirabeau's  body 
therefore  was  removed  at  night  and  thrown  into  the 
earth  in  the  cemetery  of  Clamart.  Enter  Marat. 
Marat,  however,  lay  beneath  this  imposing  dome  only 
three  poor  months,  and  then  off  went  he,  a  discredited 
corpse,  to  the  graveyard  of  St.  Etienne-du-Mont  close 
by.  Voltaire,  however,  and  Rousseau  held  their  own, 
and  here  they  are  still,  as  we  have  seen. 

Voltaire  came  hither  under  circumstances  at  once 
tragic  and  comic.  The  cortege  started  from  the  site  of 
the  Bastille,  led  by  the  dead  philosopher  in  a  cart  drawn 
by  twelve  horses,  in  which  his  figure  was  being  crowned 
by  a  young  girl.  Opposite  the  Opera  house  of  that 
day  —  by  the  Porte  St.  Martin  —  a  pause  was  made  for 
the  singing  of  suitable  hymns  (from  the  Ferney  Hymnal !) 
and  on  it  came  again.  Surrounding  the  car  were  fifty 
girls  dressed  by  David  for  the  part;  in  the  procession 
were  other  damsels  in  the  costumes  of  Voltaire's  char- 
acters. Children  scattered  roses  before  the  horses. 
What  could  be  prettier  for  Voltaire?  But  it  needed 
fine  weather,  and  instead  came  the  most  appalling  storm, 
which  frightened  all  the  young  women  (including  Fame 
from  the  car)  into  doorways,  and  washed  all  the  colour 
from  the  great  man's  effigy. 

Remembering  all  these  things,  one  realises  that  Rodin's 
Penseur,  who  was  placed  before  the  Pantheon  in  1906, 
has  something  to  brood  over  and  break  his  mind  upon. 
I  noticed  also  among  the  graves  that  of  one  Ignace 
Jacqueminot,  and  wondering  if  it  were  he  who  gave  his 


196  A  WANDERER  IN   PARIS 

name  to  the  rose,  I  was  so  eonscious  of  gloom  and  mor- 
tality that  I  hastened  to  the  regions  of  light  —  to  the 
sweet  air  of  the  Mont  du  Paris  and  the  blue  sky  over 
all.  And  later  I  climbed  to  the  lantern  —  a  trifle  of 
some  four  hundred  steps  —  and  looked  down  on  Paris 
and  its  river  and  away  to  the  hills,  and  realised  how 
much  better  it  was  to  be  a  live  dog  than  a  dead  lion. 

For  the  tomb  of  St.  Genevieve  we  have  only  a  few 
steps  to  take,  since  it  stands,  containing  all  of  her  that 
was  not  burned,  in  the  church  of  St.  Etienne-du-Mont. 
The  first  martyr,  although  he  gives  his  name  to  the 
church  and  is  seen  suffering  the  stone-throwers  in  the  re- 
lief over  the  door,  is,  however,  as  nothing.  St.  Gene- 
vieve is  the  true  patron. 

St.  Etienne's  is  one  of  the  most  interesting  churches 
in  Paris,  without  and  within.  The  facade  is  bizarre  and 
attractive,  with  its  jumble  of  styles,  its  lofty  tower  and 
Renaissance  trimmings,  and  the  sacristan's  prophet's- 
house  high  up,  on  the  northern  side  of  the  odd  little 
extinguisher.  You  see  this  best,  and  his  tiny  watch- 
dog trotting  up  and  down  his  tiny  garden,  by  descend- 
ing the  hill  a  little  way  and  then  turning.  Within,  the 
church  is  fascinating.  The  pillars  of  the  very  lofty  nave 
and  aisles  are  slender  and  sure,  the  vaulting  is  delicate 
and  has  a  unique  carved  marble  rood-loft  to  divide  the 
nave  from  the  choir,  stretching  right  along  the  church, 
with  a  rampe  of  great  beauty.  The  pulpit  is  held  up 
by  Samson  seated  upon  his  lion  and  grasping  the  jaw- 
bone of  an  ass. 


A   FETE   DAY  197 

The  last  time  I  saw  this  pulpit  was  during  the  Fete 
of  St.  Genevieve,  which  is  held  early  in  January,  when 
it  contained  a  fluent  nasal  preacher  to  whom  a  congrega- 
tion that  filled  every  seat  was  listening  with  rapt  atten- 
tion. At  the  same  time  a  moving  procession  of  other 
worshippers  was  steadily  passing  the  tomb,  which  was  a 
blaze  of  light  and  heat  from  some  hundreds  of  candles 
of  every  size.  The  man  in  front  of  me  in  the  queue,  a 
stout  bourgeois,  with  his  wife  and  two  small  daughters, 
bought  four  candles  at  a  franc  each.  He  was  all  ner- 
vousness and  anxiety  before  then,  but  having  watched 
them  lighted  and  placed  in  position,  his  face  became 
tranquil  and  gay,  and  they  passed  quickly  out,  re- 
entered their  motor-cab  and  returned  to  the  normal  life. 

Outside  the  church  was  a  row  of  stalls  wholly  given 
up  to  the  sale  of  tokens  of  the  saint  —  little  biographies, 
medals,  rosaries,  and  all  the  other  pretty  apparatus  of 
the  long-memoried  Roman  Catholic  Church.  I  bought 
a  silver  pendant,  a  brief  biography,  and  a  tiny  metal 
statue.  I  feel  now  that  had  I  also  bought  a  candle,  as 
I  was  minded  to,  I  should  have  escaped  the  cold  that, 
developing  two  or  three  days  later,  kept  me  in  bed  for 
nearly  a  fortnight.     One  must  be  thorough. 

The  church  not  only  has  agreeable  architectural 
features  and  the  tomb  of  this  good  woman,  it  has  also 
some  admirable  glass,  not  exactly  beautiful  but  very 
quaint  and  interesting,  including  a  famous  window  by  the 
Pinaigriers,  representing  the  mystery  of  the  wine-press, 
as  drawn  from  Isaiah :   "  I  have  trodden  the  wine-press 


198  A   WANDERER  IN   PARIS 

alone,  and  of  the  people  there  was  none  with  me." 
The  colouring  is  very  rich  and  satisfying,  even  if  the 
design  itself  offends  by  its  literalism  and  want  of  ima- 
gination —  Christianity  being  figured  by  the  blood  of 
Christ  as  it  gushes  forth  into  barrels  pressed  from  his 
body  as  relentlessly  as  ever  was  juice  of  the  grape.  All 
this  is  horrible,  but  one  need  not  study  it  minutely. 
There  are  other  windows  less  remarkable  but  not  less 
rich  and  glowing. 

Other  illustrious  dust  that  lies  beneath  this  church 
is  that  of  Racine  and  Pascal. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

TWO   ZOOS 

The  Tour  d'Argent  —  Frederic's  Homage  to  America  —  A  Marquis 
Poet  —  The  Halle  des  Vins  —  A  Free  Zoo  —  Peacocks  in  Love  — 
A  Reminiscence  —  The  Museums  of  the  Jardin  des  Plantes  —  A 
Lifeless  Zoo  —  Babies  in  Bottles  —  The  Jardin  d'Acclimatation  — 
The  Cheerful  Gallas  —  A  Pretty  Stable  —  Dogs  on  Velvet  —  A 
Canine  Pere  Lachaise  —  The  Sunday  Sportsmen  —  Panic  at  the 
Zoos  —  The  Besieged  Resident  —  The  Humours  of  Famine. 

ON  the  day  of  one  of  my  visits  to  the  Jardin  des 
Plantes  I  lunched  at  the  Tour  d'Argent,  a 
restaurant  on  the  Quai  de  la  Tournelle,  famous  among 
many  dishes  for  its  delicious  canard  a  la  presse.  No 
bird  on  this  occasion  passed  through  that  luxurious 
mill  for  me:  but  the  engines  were  at  work  all  around 
distilling  essential  duck  with  which  to  enrich  those 
slices  from  the  breast  that  are  all  that  the  epicure  eats. 
Over  a  simpler  repast  I  studied  a  bewildering  catalogue 
of  the  "  Creations  of  Frederic "  —  Frederic  being  M. 
Frederic  Delair,  a  venerable  cordon  bleu  with  a  head 
like  that  of  a  culinary  Ibsen,  stored  with  strange  lore 
of  sauces. 

By  what  means  one  commends  oneself  to  Frederic  I 
cannot  say,  but  certain  it  is  that  if  he  loves  you  he  will 

199 


200  A   WANDERER   IN   PARIS 

immortalise  you  in  a  dish.     Americans  would  seem  to 

have  a  short  cut  to  his  heart,  for  I  find  the  Canape 

Clarence  Mackay,  the  Filet  de  Sole  Loie  Fuller,  the 

Filet  de  Sole  Gibbs,  the  Fondu  de  Merlan  Peploe,  the 

Poulet  de  Madame  J.  W.  Mackay,  and  the  Poire  Wana- 

maker.     None  of  these  joys  tempted  me,  but  I  am  sorry 

now  that  I  did  not  partake  of  the  Potage  Georges  Cain, 

because  M.  Georges  Cain  knows  more  about  old  Paris 

than  any  man  living;   and  who  knows  but  that  a  few 

spoonfuls   of  his   Potage   might   not  have   immensely 

enriched  this  book !    The  Noisette  de  Pre-Sale  Bodley 

again  should  have  been  nourishing,  for  Mr.  Bodley  is 

the  author  of  one  of  the  best  of  all  the  many  studies  of 

France.     Instead,  however,  I  ate  very  simply,  of  ordinary 

dishes  —  foundlings,  so  to  speak,  named  after  no  one  — 

and  amused  myself  over  my  coffee  in  examining  the 

Marquis  Lauzieres  de  Themines'  poesie  sur  les  Creations 

de  Frederic  (to  the  air  of  "  La  Gorde  Sensible  ").     Two 

stanzas  and  two  choruses  will  illustrate  the  noble  poet's 

range : — 

Que  filets  de  sole  on  y  consomme! 

Sole  Neron,  Cardinal,  Maruka. 

Dosamentes,  Edson  .  .  .  d'autres  qu'on  nomme 

Victor  Renault,  Saintgall,  Heredia. 

La  liste  est  longue!  rognons,  cotelettes, 

Poulet  Sigaud  et  Canard.  Mac  Arthur, 

Filets  de  lievre  Arnold  White  et  Noisettes 

De  Pre-sale,  Langouste  Wintherthur. 

Ce  que  je  fais  n'est  pas  une  reclame, 

Je  vous  le  dis  pour  etre  obligeant. 

Je  m'en  voudrais  d'encourir  votre  blame 

Pour  avoir  trop  vante  La  Tour  D'Argent. 


. 


THE    MUSEE   CI.UNY   (COURTYARD) 


RAW    WINE  201 

Les  noms  des  (Eufs  de  cent  facons  s'etalent, 

CEufs  Bucheron,  oeufs  Claude  Lowther, 

(Eufs  Tuck,  Rathbone,  ceufs  Mackay  que  n'egalent 

Que  les  chaud-froids  de  volaille  Henniker. 

Que  d'entremets  ont  nom  de  "la  Tournelle"! 

Et  plus  souvent,  le  vocable  engageant 

Du  restaurant,  car  plus  d'un  plat  s'appelle 

(Gibier,  beignets,  salade)"Tour  d' Argent." 

Ami  lecteur,  pour  faire  bonne  chere, 
Ecoute-moi,  ne  sois  pas  negligent, 
Va-t-en  diner,  si  ta  sante  t'est  chere, 
Au  Restaurant  nomme  La  Tour  D'Argent. 

(Odd  work  for  Marquises  !) 

On  the  way  to  the  Jardin  des  Plantes  from  this 
restaurant  it  is  not  unamusing  to  turn  aside  to  the 
Halles  des  Vins  and  loiter  a  while  in  these  genial  cata- 
combs. Here  you  may  see  barrels  as  the  sands  of  the 
sea-shore  for  multitude,  and  raw  wine  of  a  colour  that 
never  yet  astonished  in  a  bottle,  and  I  hope,  so  far  as 
I  am  concerned,  never  will:  unearthly  aniline  juices 
that  are  to  pass  through  many  dark  processes  before 
they  emerge  smilingly  as  vins,  to  lend  cheerfulness  to 
the  windows  of  the  epicier  and  gaiety  to  the  French 
heart. 

Even  with  the  most  elementary  knowledge  of  French 
one  would  take  the  Jardin  des  Plantes  to  be  the  Parisian 
Kew,  and  so  to  some  small  extent  it  is ;  but  ninety-nine 
per  cent,  of  its  visitors  go  not  to  see  the  flora  but  the 
fauna.  It  is  in  reality  the  Zoo  of  the  Paris  proletariat. 
Paris,  unlike  London,  has  two  Zoos,  both  of  which  hide 
beneath  names  that  easily  conceal  their  zoological  char- 


202  A  WANDERER   IN   PARIS 

acter  from  the  foreigner  —  the  Jardin  des  Plantes, 
where  we  now  find  ourselves,  which  is  free  to  all, 
and  the  Jardin  d'Acclimatation,  on  the  edge  of  the  Bois 
de  Boulogne,  near  the  Porte  Maillot,  which  costs  money 

—  a  franc  to  enter  and  a  ridiculous  supplement  to  your 
cabman  for  the  privilege  of  passing  the  fortifications 
in  his  vehicle:  one  of  Paris's  little  mistakes.  To  the 
Jardin  d'Acclimatation  we  shall  come  anon:  just  now 
let  us  loiter  among  the  wild  animals  of  the  Jardin  des 
Plantes,  which  is  as  a  matter  of  fact  a  far  more  thorough 
Zoo  than  that  selecter  other,  where  frivolity  ranks  before 
zoology.  Our  own  Zoo  contains  a  finer  collection  than 
either,  and  our  animals  are  better  housed  and  ordered, 
but  this  Parisian  people's  Zoo  has  a  great  advantage 
over  ours  in  that  it  is  free.  All  zoological  gardens 
should  of  course  be  free. 

The  Jardin  des  Plantes  has  another  and  a  dazzling 
superiority  in  the  matter  of  peacocks.  I  never  saw  so 
many.  They  occur  wonderfully  in  the  most  unexpected 
places,  not  only  in  the  enclosures  of  all  the  other  open-air 
animals,  but  in  trees  and  on  roofs  and  amid  the  bushes 

—  burning  with  their  deep  and  lustrous  blue.  But  on 
the  warm  day  of  spring  on  which  I  saw  them  first  they 
were  not  so  quiescent.  Regardless  of  the  proprieties  they 
were  most  of  them  engaged  in  recommending  them- 
selves to  the  notice  of  their  ladies.  On  all  sides  were 
spreading  tails  bearing  down  upon  the  beloved  with  the 
steady  determination  of  a  three-masted  schooner,  and 
now  and  then  caught  like  that  vessel  in  a  shattering 


THE   PEACOCKS  203 

breeze  (of  emotion)  which  stirred  every  sail.  In  Eng- 
land one  might  feel  uncomfortable  in  the  midst  of  so 
naked  a  display  of  the  old  Adam,  but  in  Paris  one  be- 
comes more  reconciled  to  facts  and  (like  the  new  cat  in 
the  adage)  ceases  to  allow  "  I  am  ashamed  "  to  wait  upon 
"I  would."  The  peahens,  however,  behaved  with  a 
stolid  circumspection  that  was  beyond  praise.  These 
vestals  never  lifted  their  heads  from  the  ground,  but 
pecked  on  and  on,  mistresses  of  the  scene  and  incident- 
ally the  best  friends  of  the  crowds  of  ouvriers  and  ouvri- 
eres  ("Via  le  paon  !  Vite  !  Vite!")  at  every  railing. 
But  the  Parisian  peacock  is  not  easily  daunted.  In  spite 
of  these  rebuffs  the  batteries  of  glorious  eyes  continued 
firing,  and  wider  and  wider  the  tails  spread,  with  a  corre- 
sponding increase  of  disreputable  deshabille  behind ; 
and  so  I  left  them,  recalling  as  I  walked  away  a  comic 
occurrence  at  school  too  many  years  ago,  when  a  travel- 
ling elocutionist,  who  had  induced  our  headmaster  to 
allow  him  to  recite  to  the  boys,  was  noticed  to  be  discharg- 
ing all  his  guns  of  tragedy  and  humour  (some  of  which  I 
remember  distinctly  at  the  moment)  with  a  broadside 
effect  that  while  it  assisted  the  ear  had  a  limiting  in- 
fluence on  gesture  and  by-play,  and  completely  elimi- 
nated many  of  the  nuances  of  conversational  give  and 
[;ake.  Never  throughout  the  evening  did  we  lose  sight 
of  the  full  expanse  of  his  shirt  front ;  never  did  he  turn 
round.  Never,  do  I  say  ?  But  I  am  wrong.  Better  for 
him  had  it  been  never :  for  the  poor  fellow,  his  task  over 
and  his  badly  needed  guinea  earned,  forgot  under  our 


A  WANDERER  IN   PARIS 

salvoes  of  applause  the  need  of  caution,  and  turning  from 
one  side  of  the  platform  to  the  other  in  stooping  ac- 
knowledgement, disclosed  a  rent  precisely  where  no 
man  would  have  a  rent  to  be. 

My  advice  to  the  visitor  to  the  Jardin  des  Plantes  is 
to  be  satisfied  with  the  living  animals  —  with  the  seals 
and  sea-lions,  the  bears  and  peacocks,  the  storks  and 
tigers ;  and,  in  fair  weather,  with  the  flowers,  although 
the  conditions  under  which  these  are  to  be  observed  are 
not  ideal,  so  formally  arranged  on  the  flat  as  they  are, 
with  traffic  so  visibly  adjacent.  But  to  the  glutton  for 
museums  such  advice  is  idle.  Here,  however,  even  he 
is  like  to  have  his  fill. 

Let  him  then  ask  at  the  Administration  for  a  ticket, 
which  will  be  handed  to  him  with  the  most  charming 
smile  by  an  official  who  is  probably  of  all  the  bureaucrats 
of  Paris  the  least  deserving  of  a  tip,  since  zoological  and 
botanical  gardens  exist  for  the  people,  and  these  tickets 
(the  need  for  which  is,  by  the  way,  non-existent)  are 
free  and  are  never  withheld  —  but  who  is  also  of  all  the 
bureaucrats  of  Paris  the  most  determined  to  get  one, 
even,  as  I  observed,  from  his  own  countrymen.  Thus 
supplied  you  must  walk  some  quarter  of  a  mile  to  a  huge 
building  in  which  are  collected  all  the  creatures  of  the 
earth  in  their  skins  as  God  made  them,  but  lifeless  and 
staring:  from  the  hands  of  taxidermic  man.  It  is  as 
though  the  ark  had  been  overwhelmed  by  some  such 
fine  dust  as  fell  from  Vesuvius,  and  was  now  exhumed. 
One  does  not  get  the  same  effect  from  the  Natural 


BIOLOGY   FOR  THE   CROWD  205 

History  Museum  in  the  Cromwell  Road  ;  it  is,  I  suppose, 
the  massing  that  does  it  here. 

Having  walked  several  furlongs  amid  this  travesty  of 
wild  and  dangerous  life,  one  passes  to  the  next  museum, 
which  is  devoted  to  mineralogy  and  botany,  and  here 
again  are  endless  avenues  of  joy  for  the  museephile  and 
tedium  for  others.  Lastly,  after  another  quarter  of  a 
mile's  walk,  the  palatial  museum  of  anatomy  is  reached, 
the  ingenious  art  of  M.  Fremiet  once  more  providing 
a  hors  d'ceuvre.  At  the  Arts  Decoratifs  we  find  on  the 
threshold  a  man  dragging  a  bear  cub  into  captivity; 
at  the  Petit  Palais  St.  George  is  killing  the  dragon 
just  inside  the  turnstile;  and  here,  near  the  umbrella- 
stand,  is  a  man  being  strangled  by  an  ourang-outang. 
Thus  cheered  we  enter,  and  are  at  once  amid  a  very 
grove  of  babies  in  bottles :  babies  unready  for  the  world, 
babies  with  two  heads,  babies  with  no  heads  at  all, 
babies,  in  short,  without  any  merit  save  for  the  biologist, 
the  distiller,  and  the  sightseer  with  strong  nerves. 
From  the  babies  we  pass  to  cases  containing  examples 
of  every  organ  of  the  human  form  divine,  and  such 
approximations  as  have  been  accomplished  by  ele- 
phants and  mice  and  monkeys  —  all  either  genuine,  in 
spirits,  or  counterfeited  with  horrible  minuteness  in  wax. 
Also  there  are  skeletons  of  every  known  creature,  from 
whales  to  frogs,  and  I  noticed  a  case  illustrating  the 
daily  progress  of  the  chicken  in  the  egg. 

And  now  for  the  other  Zoo,  the  Zoo  of  the  classes. 
Perhaps  the  best  description  is  to  call  it  a  playground 


206  A  WANDERER  IN  PARIS 

with  animals  in  it.  For  there  are  children  everywhere, 
and  everything  is  done  for  their  amusement  —  as  is  only 
natural  in  a  land  where  children  persist  through  life 
and  no  one  ever  tires.  In  the  centre  of  the  gardens  is 
an  enclosure  in  which  in  the  summer  of  1908  were 
encamped  a  colony  of  Gallas,  an  intelligent  and  attrac- 
tive black  people  from  the  border  of  Abyssinia,  who 
flung  spears  at  a  target,  and  fought  duels,  and  danced 
dances  of  joy  and  sorrow,  and  rounded  up  zebras,  and  in 
the  intervals  sold  curiosities  and  photographs  of  them- 
selves with  ingratiating  tenacity.  It  was  a  strange 
bizarre  entertainment  with  greedy  ostriches  darting 
their  beaks  among  the  spectators,  and  these  shock- 
headed  savages  screaming  through  their  diversions,  and 
now  and  again  a  refined  slip  of  a  black  girl  imploring 
one  mutely  to  give  a  franc  for  a  five  centimes  picture 
postcard,  or  murmuring  incoherent  rhapsodies  over  the 
texture  of  a  European  dress. 

All  around  the  enclosure  the  Parisian  children  were 
playing,  some  riding  elephants,  others  camels,  some 
driving  an  ostrich  cart,  and  all  happy.  But  the  gem  of 
the  Jardin  is  the  Ecurie,  on  one  side  for  ponies  —  scores 
of  little  ponies,  all  named  —  the  other  for  horses ;  on 
one  side  a  riding  school  for  children,  on  the  other 
side  a  riding  school  for  grown-up  pupils,  perhaps  the 
cavalry  officers  of  the  future.  The  ponies  are  charm- 
ing: Bibiche,  jument  landais,  Volubilite,  cheval  landais, 
Ceramon,  cheval  finlandais,  Farceur,  from  the  same 
country,    Columbine,   nee  de   Ratibor,   and   so  forth. 


LA    LECON   DE    LECTURE 

TERBURG 

(Louvre) 


A   CHILDREN'S  PARADISE  207 

There  they  wait,  alert  and  patient  too,  in  the  manner 
of  small  ponies,  and  by-and-by  one  is  led  off  to  the 
Petit  manege  for  a  little  Monsieur  Paul  or  Etienne  to 
bestride.  The  Ecurie  is  a  model  of  its  kind,  with  its 
central  courtyard  and  offices  for  the  various  servants, 
sellier,  piqueur  and  so  forth. 

Near  by  is  a  castellated  fortress  which  might  belong 
to  a  dwarf  of  blood  but  is  really  a  rabbit  house.  Every 
kind  of  rabbit  is  here,  with  this  difference  from  the 
rabbit  house  in  our  Zoo,  that  the  animals  are  for  sale ; 
and  there  is  a  fragrant  vacherie  where  you  may  learn 
to  milk ;  and  in  another  part  is  a  collection  of  dogs  — 
tou-tous  and  lou-lous  and  all  the  rest  of  it  —  and  these 
are  for  sale  too.  This  is  as  popular  a  department  as 
any  in  the  Jardin.  The  expressions  of  delight  and 
even  ecstasy  which  were  being  uttered  before  some  of 
the  cages  I  seem  still  to  hear. 

The  Parisians  may  be  kind  fathers  and  devoted 
mothers :  I  am  sure  that  they  are ;  but  to  the  observer 
in  the  streets  and  restaurants  their  finest  shades  of 
protective  affection  would  seem  to  be  reserved  for  dogs. 
One  sees  their  children  with  bonnes;  their  dogs  are 
their  own  care.  The  ibis  of  Egypt  is  hardly  more 
sacred.  An  English  friend  who  has  lived  in  the  heart 
of  Paris  for  some  time  in  the  company  of  a  fox  terrier 
tells  me  that  on  their  walks  abroad  in  the  evening  the 
number  of  strangers  who  stop  him  to  pass  friendly 
remarks  upon  his  pet  or  ask  to  be  allowed  to  pat  it  — 
or  who  make  overtures  to   it  without  permission  —  is 


208  A   WANDERER   IN   PARIS 

beyond  belief.  No  pink  baby  in  Kensington  Gardens 
is  more  admired.  Dogs  in  English  restaurants  are  a 
rarity :  but  in  Paris  they  are  so  mueh  a  matter  of  course 
that  a  little  patee  is  always  ready  for  them. 

It  was  of  course  a  French  tongue  that  first  gave  utter- 
ance to  the  sentiment,  "The  more  I  see  of  men  the 
more  I  like  dogs;"  but  I  cannot  pretend  to  have  ob- 
served that  the  Frenchman  suffers  any  loss  in  prestige 
or  power  from  this  attention  to  the  tou-tou  and  the  lou- 
lou.  Nothing,  I  believe,  will  ever  diminish  the  confidence 
or  success  of  that  lord  of  creation.  He  may  to  the  in- 
sular eye  be  too  conscious  of  his  charms ;  he  may  suggest 
the  boudoir  rather  than  the  field  of  battle  or  the  field  of 
sport ;  he  may  amuse  by  his  hat,  astonish  by  his  beard, 
and  perplex  by  his  boots ;  but  the  fact  remains  that  he  is 
master  of  Paris,  and  Paris  is  the  centre  of  civilisation. 

The  Parisians  not  only  adore  their  dogs  in  life :  they 
give  them  very  honourable  burial.  We  have  in  London, 
by  Lancaster  Gate,  a  tiny  cemetery  for  these  friendly 
creatures;  but  that  is  nothing  as  compared  with  the 
cemetery  at  St.  Ouen,  on  an  island  in  the  Seine.  Here 
are  monuments  of  the  most  elaborate  description,  and 
fresh  wreaths  everywhere.  The  most  striking  tomb  is 
that  of  a  Saint  Bernard  who  saved  forty  persons  but 
was  killed  by  the  forty-first  —  a  hero  of  whose  history 
one  would  like  to  know  more,  but  the  gate-keeper  is 
curiously  uninstructed.1 

1  I  have  since  learned  that  this  is  the  same  dog,  Barry  by  name, 
who  has  a  monument  on  the  St.  Bernard  Pass  and  is  stuffed  in  the 


THE   DOG-LOVERS  209 

I  walked  among  these  myriad  graves,  all  very  recent 
in  date,  and  was  not  a  little  touched  by  the  affection 
that  had  gone  to  their  making.  I  noted  a  few  names : 
Petit  Bob,  Esperance  (whose  portrait  is  in  bas-relief 
accompanied  by  that  of  its  master),  Peggie,  Fan,  Pincke, 
Manon,  Dick,  Siko,  Leonette  (aged  17  years  and  4 
months),  Toby,  Kiki,  Ben-Ben  ("toujours  gai,  fidele  et 
caressant"  —  what  an  epitaph  to  strive  for!),  Javotte, 
Nana,  Lili,  Dedjaz,  Trinquefort,  Teddy  and  Prince 
(whose  mausoleum  is  superb),  Fifi  (who  saved  lives), 
Colette,  Dash  (a  spaniel,  with  a  little  bronze  sparrow 
perching  on  his  tomb),  Boy,  Bizon  (who  saved  his 
owner's  life  and  therefore  has  this  souvenir),  and 
Mosque  ("  regrette  et  fidele  ami ").  There  must  be  hun- 
dreds and  hundreds  altogether,  and  it  will  not  be  long 
before  another  "  Dog's  Acre  "  is  required. 

Standing  amid  all  the  little  graves  I  felt  that  the  one 
thing  I  wanted  to  see  was  a  dog's  funeral.  For  surely 
there  must  be  impressive  obsequies  as  a  preparation  to 
such  thoughtful  burial.  But  I  did  not.  No  melancholy 
cortege  came  that  way  that  afternoon ;  Fido's  pompes 
funebres  are  still  a  mystery  to  me. 

But  to  my  mind  the  best  dogs  in  Paris  are  not  such 
toy  pets  as  for  the  most  part  are  here  kept  in  sacred 
memory,  but  those  eager  pointers  that  one  sees  on 
Sunday  morning  at  the  Gare  du  Nord,  and  indeed  at  all 
the  big  stations,  following  brisk,  plump  sportsmen  with 

Natural   History  Museum    at   Berne.     But   I   know  nothing  of  his 
connection  with  Paris. 


210  A   WANDERER   IN   PARIS 

all  the  opera  bouffe  insignia  of  the  chase  —  the  leggings 
and  the  belt  and  the  great  satchel  and  the  gun.  For 
the  Frenchman  who  is  going  to  shoot  likes  the  world 
to  know  what  a  lucky  devil  he  is:  he  has  none  of  our 
furtive  English  unwillingness  to  be  known  for  what  we 
are.  I  have  seen  them  start,  and  I  have  waited  about 
in  the  station  towards  dinner  time  just  to  see  them 
return,  with  their  bags  bulging,  and  their  steps  spring- 
ing with  the  pride  and  elation  of  success,  and  the  faith- 
ful pointers  trotting  behind. 

Everything  is  happy  at  the  Jardins  des  Plantes 
and  d'Acclimatation  to-day:  but  it  was  not  always  so. 
During  a  critical  period  of  1870  and  1871  the  cages 
were  in  a  state  of  panic  over  the  regular  arrival  of  the 
butcher  —  not  to  bring  food  but  to  make  it.  Mr.  Labou- 
chere,  the  "  Besieged  Resident,"  writing  on  December 
5th,  1870,  says:  "Almost  all  the  animals  in  the  Jardin 
d'Acclimatation  have  been  eaten.  They  have  averaged 
about  7  f .  a  lb.  Kangaroo  has  been  sold  for  12  f.  the  lb. 
Yesterday  I  dined  with  the  correspondent  of  a  London 
paper.  He  had  managed  to  get  a  large  piece  of  mufflon, 
and  nothing  else,  an  animal  which  is,  I  believe,  only 
found  in  Corsica.  I  can  only  describe  it  by  saying  that 
it  tasted  of  mufflon,  and  nothing  else.  Without  being 
absolutely  bad,  I  do  not  think  that  I  shall  take  up  my 
residence  in  Corsica,  in  order  habitually  to  feed  upon  it." 

On  December  18th  Mr.  Labouchere  was  at  Voisin's. 
The  bill  of  fare,  he  says,  was  ass,  horse  and  English 
wolf  from  the  Zoological   Gardens.     According  to  a 


MR.  LABOUCHERE'S  DAY  211 

Scotch  friend,  the  English  wolf  was  Scotch  fox.  Mr. 
Labouchere  could  not  manage  it  and  fell  back  on  the 
patient  ass.  Voisin's,  by  the  way,  was  the  only  restau- 
rant which  never  failed  to  supply  its  patrons  with  a 
meal.  If  you  ask  Paul,  the  head  waiter,  he  will  give 
you  one  of  the  siege  menus  as  a  souvenir. 

Mr.  Labouchere's  description  of  typical  life  during 
the  siege  may  be  quoted  here  as  offering  material  for 
reflection  as  we  loiter  about  this  city  so  notable  to-day 
for  pleasure  and  plenty.  "Here  is  my  day.  In  the 
morning  the  boots  comes  to  call  me.  He  announces 
the  number  of  deaths  which  have  taken  place  in  the 
hotel  during  the  night.  If  there  are  many,  he  is 
pleased,  as  he  considers  it  creditable  to  the  establishment. 
He  then  relieves  his  feelings  by  shaking  his  fist  in  the 
direction  of  Versailles,  and  exit  growling  'Canaille  de 
Bismarck.'  I  get  up.  I  have  breakfast  —  horse,  cafe 
au  lait  —  the  lait  chalk  and  water  —  the  portion  of 
horse  about  two  square  inches  of  the  noble  quadruped. 
Then  I  buy  a  dozen  newspapers,  and  after  having  read 
them  discover  that  they  contain  nothing  new.  This 
brings  me  to  about  eleven  o'clock.  Friends  drop  in,  or  I 
drop  in  on  friends.  We  discuss  how  long  it  is  to  last  — 
if  friends  are  French  we  agree  that  we  are  sublime.  At 
one  o'clock  get  into  the  circular  railroad,  and  go  to  one 
or  other  of  the  city  gates.  After  a  discussion  with  the 
National  Guards  on  duty,  pass  through.  Potter  about 
for  a  couple  of  hours  at  the  outposts ;  try  with  glass  to 
make  out  Prussians;    look  at  bombs  bursting;    creep 


212  A  WANDERER  IN   PARIS 

along  the  trenches ;  and  wade  knee-deep  in  rnud  through 
the  fields.  The  Prussians,  who  have  grown  of  late  male- 
volent even  towards  civilians,  occasionally  send  a  ball  far 
over  one's  head.  They  always  fire  too  high.  French 
soldiers  are  generally  cooking  food.  They  are  anxious 
for  news,  and  know  nothing  about  what  is  going  on. 
As  a  rule  they  relate  the  episode  of  some  combat 
d'avant-poste'  which  took  place  the  day  before.  The 
episodes  never  vary.  5  p.m.  —  Get  back  home;  talk  to 
doctors  about  interesting  surgical  operations ;  then  drop 
in  upon  some  official  to  interview  him  about  what  he 
is  doing.  Official  usually  first  mysterious,  then  com- 
municative, not  to  say  loquacious,  and  abuses  most 
people  except  himself.  7  p.m.  —  Dinner  at  a  restaurant, 
conversation  general;  almost  everyone  in  uniform. 
Still  the  old  subjects  —  How  long  will  it  last  ?  Why 
does  not  Gambetta  write  more  clearly  ?  How  sublime 
we  are ;  what  a  fool  everyone  else  is.  Food  scanty,  but 
peculiar.  .  .  .  After  dinner,  potter  on  the  Boulevards 
under  the  dispiriting  gloom  of  petroleum ;  go  home  and 
read  a  book.  12  p.m.  —  Bed.  They  nail  up  the  coffins 
in  the  room  just  over  mine  every  night,  and  the  tap, 
tap,  tap,  as  they  drive  in  the  nails,  is  the  pleasing  music 
which  lulls  me  to  sleep." 

Here  is  another  extract  illustrating  the  pass  to  which 
a  hungry  city  had  come :  "  Until  the  weather  set  in  so 
bitter  cold,  elderly  sportsmen,  who  did  not  care  to  stalk 
the  human  game  outside,  were  to  be  seen  from  morning 
to  night  pursuing  the  exciting  sport  of  gudgeon  fishing 


THE   SIEGE  213 

along  the  banks  of  the  Seine.  Each  one  was  always 
surrounded  by  a  crowd  deeply  interested  in  the  chase. 
Whenever  a  fish  was  hooked,  there  was  as  much  excite- 
ment as  when  a  whale  is  harpooned  in  more  northern 
latitudes.  The  fisherman  would  play  it  for  some  five 
minutes,  and  then,  in  the  midst  of  the  solemn  silence  of 
the  lookers-on,  the  precious  capture  would  be  landed. 
Once  safe  on  the  bank,  the  happy  possessor  would  be 
patted  on  the  back,  and  there  would  be  cries  of '  Bravo  !' 
The  times  being  out  of  joint  for  fishing  in  the  Seine, 
the  disciples  of  Izaak  Walton  have  fallen  back  on  the 
sewers.  The  Paris  Journal  gives  them  the  following 
directions  how  to  pursue  their  new  game:  'Take  a 
long  strong  line,  and  a  large  hook,  bait  with  tallow,  and 
gently  agitate  the  rod.  In  a  few  minutes  a  rat  will  come 
and  smell  the  savoury  morsel.  It  will  be  some  time 
before  he  decides  to  swallow  it,  for  his  nature  is  cunning. 
When  he  does,  leave  him  five  minutes  to  meditate  over 
it ;  then  pull  strongly  and  steadily.  He  will  make  con- 
vulsive jumps ;  but  be  calm,  and  do  not  let  his  excite- 
ment gain  on  you,  draw  him  up,  et  voila  voire  diner'  " 
There  is  still  hardly  less  excitement  when  a  fish 
is  landed  by  a  quai  fisherman,  but  the  emotion  is  now 
purely  artistic. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  GRANDS  BOULEVARDS  :  I.  THE  MADELEINE  TO  THE 
OPERA 

From  Temple  to  Church  —  Napoleon  the  Christian  —  The  Chapelle 
Expiatoire  —  More  Irony  of  History  —  Mi-Careme  —  The  Art  of 
Insolence  —  Spacious  Streets  —  The  Champions  of  France  — 
Marius  —  Letter-boxes  and  Stamps  —  The  Facteur  at  the  Bed  — 
Killing  a  Guide  no  Murder  —  The  Largest  Theatre  in  the  World  — 
A  Theatrical  Museum. 

THE  Madeleine  has  had  a  curious  history.  The 
great  Napoleon  built  it,  on  the  site  of  a  small 
eighteenth-century  church,  as  a  Temple  of  Glory,  a  gift 
to  his  soldiers,  where  every  year  on  the  anniversaries  of 
Austerlitz  and  Jena  a  concert  was  to  be  held,  odes  read, 
and  orations  delivered  on  the  duties  and  privileges  of 
the  warrior,  any  mention  of  the  Emperor's  own  name 
being  expressly  forbidden.  That  was  in  1806.  The 
building  was  still  in  progress  when  1815  came,  with  an- 
other and  more  momentous  battle  in  it,  and  Napoleon 
and  his  proposal  disappeared.  The  building  of  the 
Temple  of  Glory  was  continued  as  a  church,  and  a 
church  it  still  is ;  and  the  memory  of  Jena  and  Auster- 
litz is  kept  alive  in  Paris  by  other  means  (they  have,  for 
example,  each  a  bridge),  no  official  orations  are  delivered 
on  the  soldier's  calling,  no  official  odes  recited.     It  was 

214 


THE   MADELEINE  215 

a  noble  idea  of  the  Emperor's,  and  however  perfunctorily 
carried  out  could  not  have  left  one  with  a  less  satisfied 
feeling  than  some  of  the  present  ceremonials  in  the 
Madeleine,  which  has  become  the  most  fashionable  Paris 
church.  Napoleon,  however,  is  not  wholly  forgotten,  for 
in  the  apse,  I  understand,  is  a  fresco  representing  Christ 
reviewing  the  chief  champions  of  Christianity  and  felici- 
tating with  them  upon  their  services,  the  great  Em- 
peror being  by  no  means  absent.  Herr  Baedeker  says 
that  the  fresco  is  there,  but  I  have  not  succeeded  in 
seeing  it,  for  the  church  is  lit  only  by  three  small 
cupolas  and  is  dark  with  religious  dusk. 

Within,  the  Madeleine  is  a  surprise,  for  it  does  not 
conform  to  its  fine  outward  design.  One  expects  a 
classic  severity  and  simplicity,  and  instead  it  is  paint  and 
Italianate  curves.  The  wisest  course  for  the  visitor  is 
to  avoid  the  steps  and  the  importunate  mendicants  at 
the  railings,  and  slip  in  by  the  little  portal  on  the  west 
side  where  the  discreet  closed  carriages  wait. 

Louis  XVIII.,  with  his  passion  —  a  very  natural  one 
—  to  obliterate  Napoleon  and  the  revolutionaries  and 
resume  monarchical  continuity,  wished  to  complete  the 
Madeleine  as  a  monument  to  Louis  XVI.  and  Marie 
Antoinette;  but  he  did  not  persevere  with  the  idea. 
He  built  instead,  on  the  site  of  the  old  cemetery  of  the 
Madeleine,  where  Louis  XVI.  and  the  Queen  had  been 
buried,  the  Chapelle  Expiatoire.  It  is  their  memory 
only  which  is  preserved  here,  for,  after  Waterloo,  their 
bones  were  carried  to  St.  Denis,  where  the  other  French 


216  A   WANDERER   IN   PARIS 

kings  lie.  Their  statues,  however,  are  enshrined  in  the 
building  (which  is  just  off  the  Boulevard  Haussmann, 
isolated  solemnly  and  impressively  among  chestnut  trees 
and  playing  children),  the  king  being  solaced  by  an 
angel  who  remarks  to  him  in  the  words  used  by  Father 
Edgeworth  on  the  scaffold,  "  Fils  de  St.  Louis,  montez 
le  ciel ! "  and  the  queen  by  religion,  personified  by 
her  sister-in-law,  Madame  Elizabeth.  The  door-keeper, 
who  conducted  me  as  guide,  was  in  raptures  over  Louis 
XVI. 's  lace  and  the  circumstance  that  he  was  hewn 
from  a  single  block  of  marble.  I  liked  his  enthusiasm : 
these  unfortunate  monarchs  deserve  the  utmost  that 
sculptor  and  door-keeper  can  give  them. 

Paris  has  changed  its  mind  more  completely  and 
frequently  than  any  city  in  the  world  —  and  no  illustra- 
tion of  that  foible  is  better  than  this  before  us.  Con- 
sider the  sequence:  first  the  king;  then  the  prisoner; 
then  the  execution  —  the  body  and  head  being  car- 
ried to  the  nearest  cemetery,  the  Madeleine,  where  the 
guillotine's  victims  were  naturally  flung,  and  carelessly 
buried.  Ten  months  later  the  queen's  body  and  head 
follow.  (It  is  said  that  the  records  of  the  Madeleine 
contain  an  entry  by  a  sexton,  which  runs  in  English, 
"Paid  seven  francs  for  a  coffin  for  the  Widow  Capet.") 
That  was  in  1793.  Not  until  1815  do  they  find  sepul- 
ture befitting  them,  and  then  this  chapel  rises  in  their 
honour  and  they  become  saints. 

Among  other  bodies  buried  here  was  that  of  Charlotte 
Corday.    Also  the  Swiss  Guards,  whom  we  saw  meeting 


LA  DENTELLlERE 

JAN   VERMEER   OF   DELFT 

(.Louvre) 


MI-CAREME  217 

death  at  the  Tuileries.  A  strange  place,  and  to-day, 
in  a  Paris  that  cares  nothing  for  Capets,  a  perfect 
example  of  what  might  paradoxically  be  called  well- 
kept  neglect. 

To  me  the  Madeleine  has  always  a  spurious  air: 
nothing  in  it  seems  quite  true.  Externally,  its  Roman 
proportions  carry  no  hint  of  the  Christian  religion ; 
within,  there  is  a  noticeable  lack  of  reverence.  Every- 
one walks  about,  and  the  Suisses  are  of  the  world 
peculiarly  and  offensively  worldly.  Standing  before  the 
altar  with  its  representation  of  the  Magdalen,  who  gives 
the  church  its  name,  being  carried  to  Heaven,  it  is  diffi- 
cult to  realise  that  only  thirty-eight  years  ago  this  very 
spot  was  running  red  with  the  blood  of  massacred  Com- 
munards. 

I  remember  the  Madeleine  most  naturally  as  I  saw 
it  once  at  Mi-Careme,  from  an  upper  window  at  Dur- 
and's,  after  lunch.  It  was  a  dull  day  and  the  Made- 
leine frowned  on  the  human  sea  beneath  it;  for  the 
Place  before  it  and  the  Rue  Royale  were  black  with 
people.  The  portico  is  always  impressive,  but  I  had 
never  before  had  so  much  time  or  such  excellent  oppor- 
tunity to  study  it  and  its  relief  of  the  Last  Judgment, 
an  improbable  contingency  to  which  few  of  us  were 
giving  much  thought  just  then.  Not  only  were  the 
steps  crowded,  but  two  men  had  climbed  to  the  green 
roof  and  were  sitting  on  the  very  apex  of  the  building. 

The  Mi-Careme  carnival  in  Paris,  I  may  say  at  once, 
is  not  worth  crossing  the  Channel  for.     It  is  tawdry 


218  A   WANDERER  IN   PARIS 

and  stupid;  the  life  of  the  city  is  dislocated;  the 
Grands  Boulevards  are  quickly  some  inches  deep  in 
confetti,  all  of  which  has  been  discharged  into  faces  and 
even  eyes  before  reaching  the  ground ;  the  air  is  full  of 
dust;  and  the  places  of  amusement  are  uncomfortably 
crowded.  The  Lutetian  humours  of  the  Latin  Quarter 
students  and  of  Montmartre  are  not  without  interest  for 
a  short  time,  but  they  become  tedious  with  extraordin- 
ary swiftness  and  certainty  as  the  morning  grows  grey. 
Each  side  of  the  Madeleine  has  its  flower  markets, 
and  they  share  the  week  between  them.  Round  and 
about  Christmas  a  forest  of  fir-trees  springs  up.  At 
the  back  of  the  Madeleine  omnibuses  and  trams  con- 
verge as  at  the  Elephant. 

For  a  walk  along  the  Grands  Boulevards  this  temple 
is  the  best  starting-point;  but  I  do  not  suggest  that 
the  whole  round  shall  be  made.  By  the  Grands  Boule- 
vards the  precisian  would  mean  the  half  circle  from  the 
Madeleine  to  the  Place  de  la  Republique  and  thence 
to  the  Place  <le  la  Bastille ;  or  even  the  whole  circle, 
crossing  the  river  by  the  Pont  Sully  to  the  Boulevard 
St.  Antoine,  which  cuts  right  through  the  Surrey  side 
and  crosses  the  river  by  the  Pont  de  la  Concorde  and 
so  comes  to  the  Rue  Royale  and  the  Madeleine  again. 
Those  are  the  Grands  Boulevards ;  but  when  the  term 
is  conversationally  used  it  means  nothing  whatever  but 
the  stretch  of  broad  road  and  pavement,  of  vivid  kiosques 
and  green  branches,  between  the  Madeleine  and  the  Rue 
Richelieu :  that  is  the  Grands  Boulevards  for  the  flaneur 


BOULEVARD   MANNERS  219 

and  the  foreigner.  All  the  best  cafes  to  sit  at,  all  the 
prettiest  women  to  stare  at,  all  the  most  entertaining 
shop  windows,  are  found  between  these  points. 

The  prettiest  women  to  stare  at !  here  I  touch  on 
a  weakness  in  the  life  of  Paris  which  there  is  no  doubt 
the  Boulevards  have  fostered.  Staring  —  more  than 
-taring,  a  cool  cynical  appraisement  —  is  one  of  the 
privileges  which  the  Boulevardier  most  prizes.  I  have 
heard  it  said  that  he  carries  staring  to  a  fine  art;  but 
it  is  not  an  art  at  all,  and  certainly  not  fine;  it  is  just 
a  coarse  and  disgusting  liberty.  It  is  nothing  to  him 
that  the  object  of  his  interest  is  accompanied  by  a  man ; 
his  code  ignores  that  detail ;  he  is  out  to  see  and  to 
make  an  impression  and  nothing  will  stop  him.  One 
must  not,  however,  let  this  ugly  practice  offend  one's 
sensibility  too  much.  Foreigners  need  not  necessarily 
do  as  the  Romans  do,  but  it  is  not  their  right  to  be  too 
critical  of  Rome;  and  liberty  is  the  very  air  of  the 
Boulevards.  Live  and  let  live.  If  one  is  going  to  be 
annoyed  by  Paris,  one  had  better  stay  at  home. 

The  Grands  Boulevards  might  be  called  the  show- 
rooms of  Paris:  it  is  here  that  one  sees  the  Parisians. 
In  London  one  may  live  for  years  and  never  see  a 
Londoner;  not  because  Londoners  do  not  exist,  but 
because  London  has  no  show-rooms  for  their  display. 
There  is  no  Boulevard  in  London ;  the  only  streets  that 
have  a  pavement  capable  of  accommodating  both  spec- 
tators and  a  real  procession  of  types  are  deserted,  such 
as  Portland  Place  and  Kingsway.     The  English,  who 


220  A   WANDERER   IN   PARIS 

conquer  and  administer  the  world,  dislike  space;  the 
French,  a  people  at  whose  alleged  want  of  inches  we 
used  to  mock,  rejoice  in  space.  Think  of  the  Champs- 
Elysees  and  the  Bois  and  then  think  of  Constitution 
Hill  and  Hyde  Park,  and  you  realise  the  difference. 
Take  a  mental  drive  by  any  of  the  principal  Boulevards 
—  from  the  Madeleine  eastward  to  the  Place  de  la 
Republique  and  back  to  the  Madeleine  again  by  way 
of  the  Boulevards  de  Magenta  and  Clichy  and  down  the 
Boulevard  Malesherbes,  and  then  take  a  mental  drive 
from  Hyde  Park  Corner  by  way  of  Piccadilly,  the 
Strand,  Fleet  Street,  Cannon  Street,  Lombard  Street, 
Cheapside,  Holborn,  Oxford  Street  and  Park  Lane  to 
Hyde  Park  Corner  again  and  you  realise  the  difference. 
In  wet  weather  in  Paris  it  is  possible  to  walk  all  day  and 
not  be  splashed.  Think  of  our  most  fashionable  thor- 
oughfare, just  by  Long's  Hotel,  when  it  is  raining  —  our 
Rue  de  la  Paix.  The  only  street  in  London  of  which  a 
Frenchman  would  not  be  ashamed  is  the  Mile  End  Road. 
At  the  Taverne  Olympia  —  just  past  the  old  houses 
standing  back  from  the  pavement,  on  the  left,  which 
are  built  on  the  wall  of  the  old  moat,  when  this  Boule- 
vard really  was  a  bulwark  or  fortification  —  at  the  Tav- 
erne Olympia,  upstairs,  is  one  of  the  few  billiard  saloons 
in  Paris  in  which  exhibition  games  are  continually  in 
progress,  and  in  which  one  can  fill  many  amusing  half- 
hours  and  perhaps  win  a  few  louis.  Years  ago  I  used 
to  frequent  the  saloon  in  a  basement  under  the  Grand 
Cafe,  a  few  doors  east  of  the  Olympia,  but  it  has  lost 


THE   CHAMPIONS   OF   FRANCE        221 

some  of  its  prestige.  The  best  play  now  is  at  Olympia 
and  at  Cure's  place  in  the  Rue  Vivienne.  Every  day  of 
the  year,  for  ever  and  ever,  a  billiard  match  is  in  pro- 
gress. So  you  may  say  is,  in  the  winter,  the  case  in 
London  at  Burroughs  and  Watts',  or  Thurston's,  but 
these  are  very  different.  In  London  the  match  is  for  a 
large  number  of  points  and  it  may  last  a  week  or  a  fort- 
night. Here  there  are  scores  of  matches  every  afternoon 
and  evening  and  the  price  of  admission  is  a  consomma- 
tion.  By  virtue  of  one  glass  of  coffee  you  may  sit  for 
hours  and  watch  champion  of  France  after  champion  of 
France  lose  and  win,  win  and  lose. 

The  usual  game  is  played  by  three  champions  of 
France  and  is  for  ten  cannons  off  the  red.  The  names 
of  the  players,  on  cards,  are  first  flung  on  the  table,  and 
the  amateur  of  sport  advances  from  his  seat  and  stakes 
five  francs  on  that  champion  of  France  whom  he  favours. 
Five  francs  is  the  unit.  On  my  first  visit,  years  ago, 
the  champion  whom  I,  very  unsoundly  but  not  perhaps 
unnaturally,  supported,  was  one  Lucas.  Poor  fellow, 
on  that  afternoon  he  did  his  best,  but  he  never  got 
home.  The  great  Marius  was  too  much  for  him. 
Marius  in  those  days  was  a  very  fine  player  and  the 
hero  of  the  saloon  at  the  Grand  Cafe.  A  Southerner 
I  should  guess ;  for  I  have  seen  his  doubles  by  the  score 
in  the  cafes  of  Avignon  and  Nimes.  He  was  short  and 
thick,  with  a  bald  head  and  a  large  sagacious  nose  and  a 
saturnine  smile  and  a  heavy  moustache.  Winning  and 
losing  were  all  one  to  him,  although  it  is  understood 


222  A  WANDERER   IN  PARIS 

that  fifty  centimes  are  contributed  by  each  of  his  backers 
to  a  champion  of  France  when  he  brings  it  off.  Marius 
looked  down  his  nose  in  the  same  way  whatever  hap- 
pened. He  was  no  Roberts;  he  had  none  of  the 
Caesarian  masterfulness,  none  of  the  Napoleonic  deci- 
sion, of  that  king  of  men.  The  French  game  does  not 
lend  itself  to  such  commanding  excellence,  such  Alpine 
distinction.  The  cannon  is  all :  there  is  none  of  the 
quiet  and  magical  disappearance  of  the  ball  into  a 
pocket  which  makes  the  English  game  so  fascinating. 

Such  was  Marius  when  I  first  saw  him,  and  quite 
lately  I  descended  to  his  cellar  again  and  found  him 
unaltered,  except  that  he  was  no  longer  a  master  except 
very  occasionally,  and  that  he  had  grown  more  sardonic. 
I  do  not  wonder  at  it.  It  may  not  be,  in  Paris,  "  a  lonely 
thing  to  be  champion,"  as  Cashel  Byron  says,  but  it 
must  be  a  melancholy  thing  to  be  no  longer  the  cham- 
pion that  you  were.  A  home  of  rest  for  ex-champions 
would  draw  my  guinea  at  once. 

The  ten  or  eight  cannons  off  the  red,  I  might  add, 
are  varied  now  and  then.  Sometimes  there  is  a  match 
between  two  players  for  a  hundred  points.  Sometimes 
three  players  will  see  which  can  first  make  eight  cannons, 
each  involving  three  cushions  (trois  bandes).  This  is 
a  very  interesting  game  to  watch,  although  it  may  be 
a  concession  to  decadence. 

We  come  next  to  the  Rue  Scribe,  and  crossing  it, 
are  at  "  Old  England,"  a  shop  where  the  homesick  may 
buy  such  a  peculiarly  English  delicacy  as  marmalade, 


1   s    .  i 


PAS  I HEON 

THE    RUE    DE    BIEVRE 

(FROM     J  111-    QUA1     DE    MONTEBELLO) 


LETTER-BOXES  223 

beneath  the  shadow  of  the  gigantic  Grand  Hotel, 
notable  not  only  for  its  million  bedrooms  but  for  mark- 
ing the  position  of  one  of  the  few  post  offices  of  Paris 
and  also  the  only  shop  in  the  centre  of  the  city  which 
keeps  a  large  and  civilised  stock  of  Havana  cigars.  One 
can  live  without  Havana  cigars,  but  post  offices  are 
a  necessity,  and  in  Paris  they  conceal  themselves  with 
great  success;  while,  as  for  letter-boxes,  it  has  been 
described  as  a  city  without  one.  To  a  Londoner  ac- 
customed to  the  frequent  and  vivid  occurrence  at  street 
corners  of  our  scar  et  obelisks,  it  is  so.  Quite  recently 
I  heard  of  a  young  Englishman,  shy  and  incorrigibly 
one-languaged,  who,  during  a  week  in  Paris,  entrusted 
all  his  correspondence  to  a  fire  alarm.  But,  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  Paris  has  letter-boxes  in  great  number,  only  for 
the  most  part  they  are  so  concealed  as  to  be  solely  for  the 
initiated.  Directly  one  learns  that  every  tobacconist  also 
sells  stamps  and  either  secretes  a  letter-box  somewhere 
beneath  his  window,  or  marks  the  propinquity  of  one, 
life  becomes  simple. 

Although  normally  one  never  has,  in  France,  even  in 
the  official  receptacle  of  one  of  the  chief  of  the  Bureaux 
des  Postes,  any  of  that  confidence  that  one  reposes  in 
the  smallest  wall-box  in  England ;  yet  one  must  perforce 
overcome  this  distrust  or  use  only  pneumatiques.  The 
French  do  not  carry  ordinary  letters  very  well,  but  if 
you  register  them  nothing  can  keep  the  postman  from 
you.  A  knock  like  thunder  crashes  into  your  dreams, 
and  behold  he  is  at  your  bedside,  alert  and  important, 


224  A  WANDERER  IN   PARIS 

beribboned  with  red  tape,  tendering  for  your  signature  a 
pen  dipped  in  an  inkstand  concealed  about  his  person. 
Everyone  who  goes  to  France  for  amusement  should 
arrange  to  receive  one  registered  letter. 

Its  letter-boxes  may  be  a  trifle  farcical,  but  in  its 
facilities  given  to  purchasers  of  stamps  France  makes 
England  look  an  uncivilised  country.  Why  it  should 
be  illegal  for  anyone  but  a  postal  official  to  supply 
stamps  in  my  own  land,  I  have  never  been  informed, 
nor  have  any  of  the  objections  to  the  system  ever  been 
explained  away.  In  France  you  may  get  your  stamps 
anywhere  —  from  tobacconists  for  certain ;  from  waiters 
for  certain ;  from  the  newspaper  kiosques  for  certain ; 
and  from  all  tradespeople  almost  for  certain :  hence  one 
is  relieved  of  the  tiresome  delays  in  post  offices  that  are 
incident  to  English  life.  But  I  am  inclined  to  think 
that  when  it  comes  to  the  post  office  proper,  England 
has  the  advantage.  The  French  post  office  (when  you 
have  found  it)  is  always  crowded  and  always  overheated ; 
and  you  remember  what  I  told  the  men  in  the  Mint. 

To  return  to  the  Grand  Hotel,  I  am  minded  to  ex- 
press the  wish  that  something  could  be  done  to  rid  its 
pavement  of  the  sly  leering  detrimental  with  an  umbrella 
who  comes  up  to  the  foreigner  and  offers  his  services  as  a 
guide  to  the  night  side  of  Paris.  Not  until  an  English- 
man has  killed  one  of  these  pests  will  this  part  of  Paris 
be  endurable.  But  from  what  I  have  observed  I  should 
say  that  few  murders  are  less  likely  to  occur.  .  .  . 

And  so  we  come  to  the  Cafe  de  la  Paix,  and  turning 


A   MUSICAL  MUSEUM  225 

to  the  left,  the  Opera  is  before  us.  The  Opera  is  one 
of  the  buildings  of  Paris  that  are  taken  for  granted. 
We  do  not  look  at  it  much :  we  think  of  it  as  occupy- 
ing the  central  position,  adjacent  to  Cook's,  useful  as 
a  place  of  meeting;  we  buy  a  seat  there  occasionally, 
and  that  is  all.  And  yet  it  is  the  largest  theatre  in 
the  world  (the  work  of  that  Charles  Gamier  whose 
statue  is  just  outside),  and  although  it  is  not  exactly 
beautiful,  its  proportions  are  agreeable;  it  does  not 
obtrude  its  size  (and  yet  it  covers  three  acres) ;  it  sits 
very  comfortably  on  the  ground,  and  an  incredible 
amount  of  patient  labour  and  thought  went  to  its 
achievement,  as  anyone  may  see  by  walking  round  it 
and  studying  the  ornamentation  and  the  statuary, 
among  which  is  Carpeaux's  famous  lively  group  "La 
Danse."  One  very  pleasant  characteristic  of  the  Opera 
is  the  modesty  with  which  it  announces  its  perform- 
ances :  nothing  but  a  minute  poster  in  a  frame,  three  or 
four  times  repeated,  giving  the  information  to  the  passer- 
by.    Larger  posters  would  impair  its  superb  reserve. 

The  Opera  has  a  little  museum,  the  entrance  to  which 
is  in  the  Rue  Auber  corner,  by  the  statue  of  the  archi- 
tect (with  his  plan  of  the  building  traced  in  bronze 
below  his  bust).  This  museum  is  a  model  of  its  kind  — 
small  but  very  pertinent  and  personal  in  character. 
Here  are  one  of  Paganini's  bows  and  his  rosin  box; 
souvenirs  of  Malibran  presented  to  her  by  some  Vene- 
tian admirers  in  1835;  Berlioz's  season  ticket  for  the 
Opera  in  18.38,  and  a  page  of  one  of  his  scores ;  Rossini 

Q 


226  A  WANDERER  IN  PARIS 

in  a  marble  statuette,  asleep  on  his  sofa,  wearing  that 
variety  of  whisker  which  we  call  a  Newgate  fringe; 
Rossini  on  his  death-bed,  drawn  by  L.  Roux,  and  a  page 
of  a  score  and  a  cup  and  saucer  used  by  him ;  a  match- 
box of  Gounod's,  a  page  of  a  score,  and  his  marble  bust ; 
Meyerbeer  on  his  death-bed,  drawn  by  Mousseaux,  a 
decoration  worn  by  that  composer,  and  a  page  of  his 
score ;  two  of  Cherubini's  tobacco  boxes  and  a  page  of 
his  score ;  Danton's  clay  caricature  of  Lizst  —  all  hair 
and  legs  —  at  the  piano,  and  a  caricature  of  Lizst  play- 
ing the  piano  while  Lablache  sings  and  Habeneck  con- 
ducts; a  bust  of  Fanny  Cerrito,  danseuse,  in  1821  — 
with  a  mischievous  pretty  face  —  that  Cerrito  of  whom 
Thomas  Ingoldsby  rhymed ;  and  a  bust  of  Emma  Livry, 
a  danseuse  of  a  later  day,  who  died  aged  twenty-three 
from  injuries  received  from  fire  during  the  repetition 
generale  of  the  "  Muette  de  Portici "  on  November  15th, 
1862.  In  a  little  coffer  near  by  are  the  remains  of  the 
clothes  the  poor  creature  was  wearing  at  the  time.  What 
else  is  there  ?  Many  busts,  among  them  Delibes  the 
composer  of  "  Coppelia,"  whose  grave  we  shall  see  in  the 
Cimetiere  de  Montmartre :  here  bearded  and  immortal ; 
autograph  scores  by  Verdi,  Donizetti,  Victor  Masse, 
Auber,  Spontini  (whose  very  early  piano  also  is  here),  and 
Herold ;  a  caricature  by  Isabey  of  young  Vestris  bound- 
ing in  mid  air,  models  of  scenes  of  famous  operas,  and  a 
host  of  other  things  all  displayed  easily  in  a  small  but 
sufficient  room.  If  all  museums  were  as  compact  and 
single-minded  ! 


CHAPTER  XV 

A   CHAIR   AT   THE   CAFE    DE   LA    PAIX 

The  Green  Hour  —  In  the  Stalls  of  Life  —  National  Contrasts  and  the 
Futility  of  Drawing  Them  —  The  Concierge  —  The  Benefice 
Hunters  —  The  Claque  —  The  Paris  Theatre  —  The  Paris  Music 
Hall  —  The  Everlasting  Joke  —  The  Real  French  —  A  Country 
of  Energy  —  A  City  of  Waiters  —  Ridicule  —  Women  —  Cabmen 
—  The  Levelling  of  the  Tourist  —  French  Intelligence  —  The 
Chauffeurs  —  The  Paris  Spectacle. 

AND  now  since  it  is  the  "  green  hour  "  —  since  it  is 
five  o'clock  —  let  us  take  a  chair  outside  the  Cafe 
de  la  Paix  and  watch  the  people  pass,  and  meditate, 
here,  in  the  centre  of  the  civilised  world,  on  this  wonder- 
ful city  of  Paris  and  this  wonderful  country  of  France. 
I  am  not  sure  but  that  when  all  is  said  it  is  not  these 
outdoor  cafe  chairs  of  Paris  that  give  it  its  highest  charm 
and  divide  it  from  London  with  the  greatest  emphasis. 
There  are  three  reasons  why  one  cannot  sit  out  in  this 
way  in  London :  the  city  is  too  dirty ;  the  air  is  rarely 
warm  enough ;  and  the  pavements  are  too  narrow.  But 
in  Paris,  which  enjoys  the  equable  climate  of  a  continent 
and  understands  the  aesthetic  uses  of  a  pavement,  and 
burns  wood,  charcoal  or  anthracite,  it  is,  when  dry, 
always  possible;  and  I,  for  one,  rejoice  in  the  privilege. 
This  "green  hour"  —  this  quiet  recess  between  five  and 

227 


228  A  WANDERER  IN  PARIS 

six  in  which  to  sip  an  aperitif,  and  talk,  and  watch  the 
world,  and  anticipate  a  good  dinner  —  is  as  characteris- 
tically French  as  the  absence  of  it  is  characteristically 
English.  The  English  can  sip  their  beverages  too,  but 
how  different  is  the  bar  at  which  they  stand  from  the 
comfortable  stalls  (so  to  speak)  in  the  open-air  theatres 
of  the  Boulevards  in  which  the  French  take  their  ease. 

At  every  turn  one  is  reminded  that  these  people  live 
as  if  the  happiness  of  this  life  were  the  only  important 
thing;  while  if  we  subtract  a  frivolous  fringe,  it  may 
be  said  of  the  English  that  (without  any  noticeable  gain 
in  such  advantages  as  spirituality  confers)  they  are  always 
preparing  to  be  happy  but  have  not  yet  enough  money 
or  are  not  yet  quite  ready  to  begin.  The  Frenchman 
is  happy  now :  the  Englishman  will  be  happy  to-morrow. 
(That  is,  at  home ;  yet  I  have  seen  Englishmen  in  Paris 
gathering  honey  while  they  might,  with  both  hands.) 

But  the  French  and  English,  London  and  Paris,  are 
not  really  to  be  compared.  London  and  Paris  indeed 
are  different  in  almost  every  respect,  as  the  capitals  of 
two  totally  and  almost  inimically  different  nations  must 
be.  For  a  few  days  the  Englishman  is  apt  to  think  that 
Paris  has  all  the  advantages :  but  that  is  because  he  is 
on  a  holiday;  he  soon  comes  to  realise  that  London  is 
his  home,  London  knows  his  needs  and  supplies  them. 
Much  as  I  delight  in  Paris  I  would  make  almost  any 
sacrifice  rather  than  be  forced  to  live  there ;  yet  so  long 
as  inclination  is  one's  only  master  how  pleasant  are  her 
vivacity  and  charm.     But  comparisons  between  nations 


0 


GIRL'S   HEAD 

ECOLE   DE    FABRIANO 

(Louvre) 


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V 

THE   TWO   NATIONS  229 

are  idle.  For  a  Frenchman  there  is  no  country  like 
France  and  no  city  like  Paris;  for  an  Englishman  Eng- 
land is  the  best  country  and  London  the  most  desirable 
city.  For  a  short  holiday  for  an  Englishman,  Paris  is  a 
little  paradise;  for  a  short  holiday  for  a  Frenchman, 
London  is  a  little  inferno. 

Each  country  is  the  best ;  each  country  has  advantages 
over  the  other,  each  country  has  limitations.  The 
French  may  have  wide  streets  and  spacious  vistas,  but 
their  matches  are  costly  and  won't  light;  the  English, 
even  in  the  heart  of  London,  may  be  contented  with 
narrow  and  muddy  and  congested  lanes,  but  their  sugar 
at  least  is  sweet. 

The  French  may  have  abolished  bookmakers  from 
their  race-courses  and  may  give  even  a  cabman  a  clean 
napkin  to  his  meals,  but  their  tobacco  is  a  monopoly. 
The  English  may  fill  their  streets  with  newspaper  posters 
advertising  horrors  and  scandals,  but  they  are  permitted 
now  and  then  to  forget  their  vile  bodies.  The  French 
may  piously  and  prettily  erect  statues  of  every  illus- 
trious child  of  the  State,  but  their  billiard  tables  are 
still  without  pockets.  London  may  have  a  cleaner  Tube 
railway  system  than  Paris,  but  Paris  has  the  advantage 
of  no  lifts  and  a  correspondence  ticket  at  a  trifling  cost 
which  will  take  you  everywhere,  whereas  London's  Tubes 
belonging  to  different  companies  the  correspondence  is 
expensive.  Again  with  omnibuses,  London  may  have 
more  and  better,  but  here  again  the  useful  correspond- 
ence system  is  to  be  found  only  in  Paris. 


230  A  WANDERER  IN  PARIS 

London  may  be  in  darkness  for  most  of  the  winter 
and  be  rained  upon  by  soot  all  the  year  round ;  but  at 
any  rate  the  Londoner  is  master  in  his  own  house  or 
flat  and  not  the  cringing  victim  of  a  concierge,  as  every 
Parisian  is.  That  is  something  to  remember  and  be 
thankful  for.  Paris  has  an  atmosphere,  and  a  climate, 
and  good  food,  and  attentive  waiters,  and  a  cab  to  every 
six  yards  of  the  kerb,  and  no  petty  licensing  tyrannies,  and 
the  Champs-Elysees,  and  immunity  from  lurid  newspaper 
posters,  and  good  coffee,  and  the  Winged  Victory  and 
Monna  Lisa ;  but  it  also  has  the  concierge.  At  the  en- 
trance to  every  house  is  this  inquisitive  censorious  janitor 
—  a  blend  in  human  shape  of  Cerberus  and  the  Record- 
ing Angel.  The  concierge  knows  the  time  you  go  out 
and  (more  serious)  the  time  you  come  in ;  what  letters 
and  parcels  you  receive;  what  visitors,  and  how  long 
they  stay.  The  concierge  knows  how  much  rent  you 
pay  and  what  you  eat  and  drink.  And  the  worst  of  it 
is  that  since  the  concierge  keeps  the  door  and  dominates 
the  house  you  must  put  a  good  face  on  it  or  you  will 
lose  very  heavily.  Scowl  at  the  concierge  and  your  life 
will  become  a  harassment :  letters  will  be  lost ;  parcels 
will  be  delayed  ;  visitors  will  be  told  you  are  at  home ; 
a  thousand  little  vexations  will  occur.  The  concierge 
in  short  is  a  rod  which,  you  will  observe,  it  is  well  to  kiss. 
The  wise  Parisian  therefore  is  always  amiable,  and  gener- 
ous too,  although  in  his  heart  he  wishes  the  whole  system 
at  the  devil. 

And  here  I  ought  to  say  that  although  one  is  thus 


THE   LONG-SUFFERING   PEOPLES       231 

conscious  of  certain  of  the  defects  and  virtues  of  each 
nation,  I  have  no  belief  whatever  in  any  large  inter- 
change of  characteristics  being  possible.  Nations  I 
think  can  borrow  very  little  from  each  other.  What 
is  sauce  for  the  goose  is  by  no  means  necessarily  sauce 
for  the  oie,  and  the  meat  of  an  homme  can  easily  be  the 
poison  of  a  man. 

The  French  and  the  English  base  life  on  such  differ- 
ent premises.  To  put  the  case  in  a  nutshell,  we  may 
say  that  the  French  welcome  facts  and  the  English  avoid 
them.  The  French  make  the  most  of  facts;  the  Eng- 
lish persuade  themselves  that  facts  are  not  there.  The 
French  write  books  and  plays  about  facts,  and  read  and 
go  to  the  theatre  to  see  facts;  the  English  write  books 
and  plays  about  sentimental  unreality,  and  read  and  go 
to  the  theatre  in  order  to  be  diverted  from  facts.  The 
French  live  quietly  and  resignedly  at  home  among  facts ; 
the  English  exhaust  themselves  in  games  and  travel  and 
frivolity  and  social  inquisitiveness,  in  order  to  forget  that 
they  have  facts  in  their  midst. 

Cne  always  used  to  think  that  the  English  were  the 
most  willing  endurers  of  impositions  and  monopolies; 
but  I  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  a  people  that 
can  continue  to  burn  French  matches  and  use  French 
ink  and  blotting-paper,  bend  before  the  concierge  and 
suffer  the  claque  and  the  French  theatre  attendant, 
must  be  even  weaker.  Only  a  people  in  love  with 
slavery  would  continue  to  endure  the  black-bombazined 
harpies  who  turn  the  French  theatres  into  infernos,  first 


232  A   WANDERER   IN   PARIS 

by  their  very  presence  and  secondly  by  their  clamour 
for  a  benefice.  They  do  nothing  and  they  levy  a  tax 
on  it.  So  far  from  exterminating  them,  this  absurd 
lenient  French  people  has  even  allowed  them  to  domin- 
ate the  cinematoscope  halls  which  are  now  so  numerous 
all  over  Paris.  I  sit  and  watch  them  and  wonder  what 
they  do  all  day:  in  what  dark  corner  of  the  city  they 
hang  like  bats  till  the  evening  arrives  and  they  are 
free  to  poison  the  air  of  the  theatres  and  exact  their 
iniquitous  secret  commission.  The  habit  of  London 
managers  to  charge  sixpence  for  a  programme  —  an 
advertisement  of  his  wares  such  as  every  decent  and 
courteous  tradesman  is  proud  to  give  away  —  is  suffi- 
ciently monstrous ;  but  I  can  never  enough  honour  them 
for  excluding  these  benefice  hunters. 

Whatever  may  be  said  of  French  acting  and  French 
plays,  there  is  no  doubt  that  our  theatres  are  more  com- 
fortable and  better  managed.  A  Frenchman  visiting  a 
theatre  in  London  has  no  difficulties :  he  buys  his  seat 
at  the  office,  is  shown  to  it  and  the  matter  ends.  An 
Englishman  visiting  a  theatre  in  Paris  has  no  such  ease. 
He  must  first  buy  his  ticket  (and  let  him  scrutinise  the 
change  with  some  care  and  despatch) ;  this  ticket,  how- 
ever, does  not,  as  in  London,  carry  the  number  of  his 
seat:  it  is  merely  a  card  of  introduction  to  the  three 
gentlemen  in  evening  dress  and  tall  hats  who  sit  side  by 
side  in  a  kind  of  pulpit  in  the  lobby.  One  of  them 
takes  his  ticket,  another  consults  a  plan  and  writes  a 
number  on  it,  and  the  third  hands  it  back.     Another 


THE   CLAQUE  233 

difficulty  has  yet  to  come,  for  now  begins  the  turn  of 
the  harpies.  Why  the  English  custom  is  not  followed, 
and  a  clean  sweep  made  of  both  the  men  in  the  pulpit 
and  the  women  inside,  one  has  no  notion ;  for  in  addi- 
tion to  being  a  nuisance  they  must  reduce  the  profits. 

I  mentioned  the  claque  just  now.  That  is  another 
of  the  Frenchman's  darling  bugbears  which  the  English 
would  never  stand.  Every  Frenchman  to  whom  I  have 
spoken  about  it  shares  my  view  that  it  is  an  abomina- 
tion, but  when  I  ask  why  it  is  not  abolished  he  merely 
shrugs  his  shoulders :  "  Why  should  it  be  ?  —  one  can 
endure  it,"  is  the  attitude;  and  that  indeed  is  the 
Frenchman's  attitude  to  most  of  the  things  that  he  finds 
objectionable.  They  are,  after  all,  only  trimmings ;  the 
real  fabric  of  his  life  is  not  injured  by  them;  there- 
fore let  them  go  on.  Yet  while  one  can  understand  the 
persistence  of  certain  Parisian  defects,  the  long  life  of 
the  claque  remains  a  mystery.  Upon  me  the  periodical 
and  mechanical  explosions  of  this  body  of  hirelings  have 
an  effect  little  short  of  infuriation.  One  is  told  that 
the  actors  are  responsible  rather  than  the  managers,  and 
this  makes  its  continuance  the  more  unreasonable,  for 
the  result  has  been  that  in  their  efforts  to  acquire  the 
illusion  of  applause,  they  have  lost  the  real  thing. 
French  audiences  rarely  clap  any  more. 

When  it  comes  to  the  consideration  of  the  French 
stage,  there  is  again  no  point  in  making  comparisons. 
It  is  again  a  conflict  of  fact  and  sentiment.  The 
French  are  intensely  interested  in  the  manifestations  of 


234  A   WANDERER  IN  PARIS 

the  sexual  emotion,  and  they  have  no  objection  to  see 
the  calamities  and  embarrassments  and  humours  to 
which  it  may  lead  worked  out  frankly  on  the  boards  or  in 
literature :  hence  a  certain  sameness  in  their  plays  and 
novels.  The  majority  of  the  English  still  think  that 
physical  matters  should  be  hidden :  hence  our  dramatists 
and  novelists  having  had  to  find  other  themes,  adventure, 
eccentricity  and  character  have  won  their  predominant 
place.  That  is  all  there  is  to  it.  The  French  stage  is 
the  best  —  to  a  Frenchman  or  a  gallicised  Englishman ; 
the  English  stage  is  the  best  —  to  the  English.  The 
English  go  rather  to  see ;  the  French  to  hear.  In  other 
words  a  blind  Frenchman  would  be  better  pleased  with 
his  national  stage  than  a  blind  Englishman  with  his. 
The  blind  Frenchman  would  at  any  rate  not  miss  the 
jokes,  which,  though  he  knew  them  all  before,  he  could 
not  resist;  whereas  the  Englishman  would  be  deprived 
of  the  visible  touches  of  which  the  personae  of  our  drama 
are  largely  built  up.  In  a  drama  of  passion,  whether 
treated  seriously  or  lightly,  words  necessarily  are  more 
than  idiosyncrasies. 

In  the  Paris  music  halls  the  comic  singers  merely 
sing  —  they  have  little  but  words  to  give.  London 
music  hall  audiences  may  have  an  undue  affection  for 
red  noses  and  sordid  domestic  details;  but  they  do 
expect  a  little  character,  even  if  it  is  coarse  character, 
during  the  evening,  and  they  get  it.  There  is  little  in 
the  French  hall.  Personality  is  discouraged  here ;  rich- 
ness, quaintness,  unction,   irresponsibility,  eccentricity 


la  b£n6dicit£ 

CHARDIN 

{Louvre) 


COMPERE  AND   COMMERE  235 

—  such  gifts  as  once  pleased  us  in  Dan  Leno  and  now  are 
to  be  found  in  a  lesser  degree  but  very  agreeably  in 
Wilkie  Bard  —  these  are  superfluities  to  a  French  comic 
singer.  All  that  is  asked  of  him  is  that  he  shall  be 
active,  shall  have  a  resonant  voice  and  shall  commit  to 
memory  a  sufficient  number  of  cynical  reflections  on  life. 
A  gramophone  producing  any  rapid  indecent  song  would 
please  the  French  more  than  a  hundred  Harry  Lauders. 
(And  yet  when  all  is  said  it  must  be  far  easier  to  live  in  a 
country  where  decency,  as  we  understand  and  painfully 
cultivate  it,  has  not  everywhere  to  be  considered.  The 
life  at  any  rate  of  the  French  author,  publisher,  editor  and 
magistrate,  to  name  no  others,  is  immensely  simplified.) 
But  from  my  point  of  view  the  worst  characteristic 
of  the  French  music  hall  and  variety  stage  is  the  revue. 
The  revue  is  indeed  a  standing  proof  of  the  incontro- 
vertible fact  that  however  the  hotel  proprietors  may 
feel  about  it,  the  Parisian  does  not  want  English  people 
in  his  midst.  (Why  should  he  ?)  The  revue  in  its 
quiddity  is  a  device  for  excluding  foreigners  from 
theatres;  for  it  is  not  only  dull  and  monotonous,  but 
being  for  the  most  part  a  satire  on  Parisian  politics  is 
incomprehensible  too.  I  am  not  here  to  defend  the 
English  pantomime,  but  not  all  its  agonies  (as  Ruskin 
called  them)  reach  such  a  height  of  tedium  as  a  revue 
can  achieve.  A  Frenchman  ignorant  of  English  at 
Drury  Lane  on  Boxing  Night  might  be  bewildered  and 
even  stunned ;  but  he  would  at  any  rate  know  something 
of  what  was  happening  and  his  eyes  would  be  kept  busy. 


236  A  WANDERER   IN   PARIS 

An  Englishman  at  a  revue  knows  nothing,  for  there  is 
no  story  and  very  little  money  is  spent  on  the  stage 
picture:  it  is  just  a  steady  cataract  of  topical  talk.  1 
have  endured  many  revues,  always  hoping  against  hope 
that  someone  would  be  witty  or  funny,  that  some  in- 
genious satirical  device  would  occur.  But  I  have  never 
been  rewarded.  No  matter  what  the  nominal  subject, 
the  jokes  have  been  the  same:  the  old  old  mots  a 
double  entente,  the  old  old  outspoken  indecency.  .  .  . 

The  stream  of  people  continues  to  be  incessant  and 
of  incredible  density  —  all  walking  at  the  same  pace,  all 
talking  as  only  the  French  can  talk,  rich  and  poor 
equally  owners  of  the  pavement.  Now  and  then  a 
camelot  offers  a  toy  or  a  picture  postcard ;  boys  bring 
La  Patrie  or  La  Presse;  a  performer  bends  and  twists 
a  piece  of  felt  into  every  shape  of  hat,  culminating  in 
Napoleon's  famous  chapeau  a  comes.   .  .  . 

One  thing  that  one  notices  is  the  absence  of  laughter. 
The  French  laugh  aloud  very  seldom.  Even  in  their 
theatres,  at  the  richest  French  jokes,  their  approval  is 
expressed  rather  in  a  rippling  murmur  counterfeiting 
surprise  than  a  laugh.  Animation  one  sees,  but  on 
these  Boulevards  behind  that  is  often  a  suggestion  of 
anxiety.  The  dominant  type  of  face  seen  from  a  chair 
at  the  Cafe  de  la  Paix  is  not  a  happy  one.  .    .  . 

It  is  when  one  watches  this  restless  moving  crowd,  or 
the  complacent  audiences  at  the  farces,  or  the  diners  in 
restaurants  eating  as  if  it  were  the  last  meal,  and  when 
one  looks  week  after  week  at  the  comic  papers  of  Paris, 


THE   ENERGY  OF  FRANCE  237 

with  their  deadly  insistence  on  the  one  and  apparently 
only  concern  of  Parisian  life,  that  one  has  most  of  all  to 
remind  oneself  that  these  people  are  not  the  French,  and 
that  one  is  a  superficial  tourist  in  danger  of  acquiring 
very  wrong  impressions.  This  is  the  fringe,  the  froth. 
One  has  only  to  remember  a  very  few  of  the  things  we 
have  seen  in  Paris  to  realise  the  truth  of  this.  Never 
was  a  harder-working  people.  Look  at  the  early  hours 
that  Paris  keeps :  contrast  them  with  London's  slovenly 
awakening.  Look  at  the  amazing  productivity  of  a 
notoriously  idle  and  careless  set  —  the  artists :  the  old 
Salon  with  its  miles  of  pictures  twice  a  year,  and  the 
other  Salons,  hardly  less  crowded,  and  the  minor  exhi- 
bitions too.  Look  at  the  industry  of  the  Paris  stage: 
the  new  plays  that  are  produced  every  week,  involving 
endless  rehearsals  day  and  night.  Look  at  the  energy 
of  the  French  authors,  dramatic  as  well  as  narrative,  of 
the  journalists  and  printers.  Think  of  the  engineers, 
the  motor-car  manufacturers,  the  gardeners  and  the 
vintners.  Think  of  the  bottle-makers.  (But  one  can- 
not :  such  a  thought  causes  the  head  to  reel  in  this  city 
of  bottles.)  No,  we  are  not  seeing  France,  we  foreign 
visitors  to  "the  gay  capital."  Don't  let  us  labour 
under  any  such  mistake.  The  industrious,  level-headed, 
cheerful  French  people  do  not  exhibit  themselves  to  the 
scrutinising  eyes  of  the  Cafe  de  la  Paix,  do  not  spend 
all  their  time  as  Le  Rire  would  have  us  believe,  do  not 
over  eat  and  over  drink. 

Around  and  about  one  all  the  time,  as  one  watches 


238  A   WANDERER   IN   PARIS 

this  panorama,  the  swift  and  capable  waiters  are  busy. 
Everyone  carries  away  from  Paris  one  mastering  im- 
pression upon  the  inward  eye:  I  am  not  sure  that 
mine  is  not  a  blur  of  waiters  in  their  long  white  aprons. 
At  the  Paris  Exhibition  of  1900,  over  the  principal 
entrance  at  the  south-west  corner  of  the  Place  de  la 
Concorde,  was  the  gigantic  figure  of  a  young  and 
fashionable  woman  in  the  very  heyday  of  her  vivacity, 
allurement  and  smartness.  She  personified  Paris.  But 
not  so  would  I  symbolise  that  city.  In  any  coat  of  arms  of 
Paris  that  I  designed  would  certainly  be  a  capable  young 
woman,but  also  a  waiter,  sleek,  attentive  and  sympathetic. 

Paris  may  be  a  city  of  feminine  charm  and  domina- 
tion; but  to  the  ordinary  foreigner,  and  especially  the 
Englishman,  it  is  far  more  a  city  of  waiters.  Women  we 
have  in  England  too :  but  waiters  we  have  not.  There 
are  waiters  in  London,  no  doubt,  but  that  is  the  end  of 
them :  there  are,  to  all  intents  and  purposes,  no  waiters 
in  the  provinces,  where  we  eat  exclusively  in  our  own 
houses.  And  even  in  London  we  must  brace  ourselves 
to  find  such  waiters  as  there  are:  we  must  indulge  in 
heroic  feats  of  patience,  and,  once  the  waiter  comes  into 
view,  exercise  most  of  the  vocal  organs  to  attract  his 
notice  and  obtain  his  suffrages.  In  other  words,  there 
is  in  London  perhaps  one  waiter  to  every  five  thousand 
persons;  whereas  in  Paris  there  are  five  thousand 
waiters,  more  or  less,  to  every  one  person.  Or  so  it 
seems.     It  is  a  city  of  waiters ;  it  is  the  city  of  waiters. 

Still  the  people  stream  by,  and  one  wonders  whence 
the   idea   comes   that   the   French   are   a   particularly 


STREET  TYPES  239 

small  race.  It  is  not  true.  Look  at  that  tall  boulevar- 
dier  with  someone  else's  hat  (why  do  so  many  French- 
men seem  to  be  wearing  other  men's  hats  ?)  and  the 
immense  beard.  Look  at  those  two  long-haired  artists 
from  the  Latin  Quarter,  in  velvet  clothes  and  black 
sombreros.  In  England  they  would  be  stared  at  and 
laughed  at;  but  here  no  one  is  laughed  at  at  all,  and 
only  the  women  are  stared  at.  It  is  interesting  to 
note  how  little  street  ridicule  there  is  in  France.  The 
Frenchman  mocks,  but  he  does  not,  as  I  think  so  many 
of  the  English  do,  search  for  the  ridiculous;  or  at  any 
rate  it  is  not  the  same  kind  of  ridiculousness  that  we 
pillory.  In  England  we  bring  such  sandpaper  of  preju- 
dice and  public  opinion  to  bear  upon  eccentricity  that 
everyone  becomes  smooth  and  ordinary  —  like  every- 
one else.  But  in  France  —  to  the  superficial  observer, 
at  any  rate  —  individuality  is  encouraged  and  nourished; 
in  France  either  no  one  is  ridiculous  or  everyone  is. 

Someone  once  remarked  to  me  that  never  in  Paris 
do  you  see  a  woman  with  any  touch  of  the  woods.  It 
is  true.  The  Parisian  women  suggest  the  boudoir,  the 
theatre,  the  salon,  the  sewing-room,  the  kitchen,  and 
now  and  then  even  the  fields ;  but  never  the  woods.  .  .  . 

One  misses  also  in  Paris  the  boy  of  from  fifteen  to 
eighteen.  Younger  boys  there  are,  and  young  men 
abound,  but  youths  of  that  age  one  does  not  much  see, 
and  very  rarely  indeed  a  father  and  son  together.  In 
fact  the  generations  seem  to  mix  very  little:  in  the 
restaurants  men  of  the  same  age  are  usually  together: 
beards  lunch  with  beards.  .  .  . 


240  A  WANDERER  IN   PARIS 

And  the  road  is  dense  too.  There  is  a  block  every 
few  minutes,  while  the  agents  in  the  centre  of  the 
carrefour  do  their  best  to  control  the  four  streams  of 
traffic.  It  is  odd  that  a  people  with  so  much  sense  of 
order  and  red  tape  should  fail  so  signally  to  produce  an 
organiser  of  traffic.  Certain  it  is  that  the  stupidest 
Kentish  giant  who  joins  the  Metropolitan  police  force 
has  a  better  idea  of  such  a  duty  than  any  of  these 
polished  gentlemen  in  caps.  Partly  perhaps  because  in 
London  the  police  are  feared  and  obeyed,  and  in  Paris 
the  drivers,  particularly  the  cabmen,  care  for  no  one. 
The  words  Liberte,  Egalite,  Fraternite  are  not  stencilled 
all  over  our  churches  and  public  buildings,  you  see. 

The  cabmen  !  My  impression  now  is,  writing  here  in 
England,  that  the  Paris  cochers  are  all  exactly  alike. 
They  have  white  hats  and  blue  coats  and  bad  horses 
and  black  moustaches,  and  their  backs  entirely  fill  the 
landscape.  Also  one  seldom  sees  an  accident,  although 
they  never  look  as  if  they  were  going  to  avoid  one. 
That  is  partly  because  they  are  a  weary  and  cynical 
folk,  and  partly  because  in  France  the  roads  belong  to 
vehicles,  and  not,  as  in  England,  to  foot-passengers.  In 
England  if  you  are  run  over  you  can  prosecute  the 
driver  and  get  damages ;  in  France  if  you  are  run  over 
the  driver  (one  has  always  heard)  can  prosecute  you  for 
being  in  the  way. 

One  very  comfortable  trait  of  the  Parisian  cocher  is 
his  readiness  to  go  anywhere,  no  matter  how  far  or  diffi- 
cult ;  but  he  never  seems  so  ready  as  when  one  directs 
him  to  the  Place  Pigalle  or  Place  Blanche  on  Mont- 


THE   COCHER  241 

martre,  or  even  the  Moulin  de  la  Galette  on  its  most 
precipitous  slope,  nor  does  his  forlorn  steed  ever  show 
more  alacrity  than  in  breasting  this  acclivity. 

No  matter  with  what  fervour  is  the  entente  fostered 
and  nourished,  the  Parisian  cabman  will  see  to  it  that 
the  hatchet  is  never  too  deeply  interred,  that  the  racial 
excrescences  are  not  too  smoothly  planed.  Polite  hotel 
managers,  obsequious  restaurateurs,  smiling  sommeliers 
and  irradiated  shopkeepers  may  do  their  best  to  assure 
the  Anglo-Saxon  that  he  is  among  a  people  that  exist 
merely  to  do  him  honour  and  adore  his  personality ;  but 
directly  he  hails  a  cab  he  knows  better.  The  truth  is 
then  his.  Not  that  the  Parisian  cocher  hates  a  foreigner. 
Nothing  so  crude  as  that.  He  merely  is  possessed  by  a 
devil  of  contempt  that  prompts  him  to  humiliate  and 
confound  us.  To  begin  with  he  will  not  appear  to  want 
you  as  a  fare ;  he  will  make  it  a  favour  to  drive  you  at 
all.  He  will  then  begin  his  policy  of  humorous  pin- 
pricks. Though  you  speak  with  the  accent  of  Mounet- 
Sully  himself  he  will  force  you  to  pronounce  the  name 
of  your  destination  not  once  but  many  times,  and  then 
very  likely  he  will  drive  you  somewhere  else  first.  You 
may  step  into  his  cab  with  a  feeling  that  Paris  is  becom- 
ing a  native  city :  you  will  emerge  wishing  it  at  the  bottom 
of  the  sea.  That  is  the  cocher's  special  mission  in  life — 
subtly  and  insidiously  to  humiliate  the  tourist.  He  does 
it  like  an  artist  and  as  an  artist  —  for  his  own  pleasure. 
It  is  the  only  compensation  that  his  dreary  life  carries. 

The  French,  I  fancy,  are  not  less  capable  of  stupidity 


242  A   WANDERER   IN   PARIS 

than  any  other  people.  There  is  an  idea  current  that 
they  are  the  most  intelligent  of  races,  but  I  believe  this 
to  be  a  fallacy,  proceeding  from  the  fact  that  the  French 
language  lends  itself  to  epigrammatic  expression,  and 
that  every  French  child  dips  his  cup  into  the  com- 
mon reservoir  of  engaging  idioms  and  adroit  phrases. 
This  means  that  French  conversation,  even  among  the 
humblest,  is  better  than  English  conversation  under 
similar  and  far  more  favourable  conditions ;  but  it  means 
no  more.  It  gives  no  real  intelligence.  The  incapacity 
of  the  ordinary  Frenchman  to  get  enough  imagination 
into  his  ear  (so  fine  that  it  can  distinguish  between  the 
most  delicate  vowel  sounds  in  his  own  language)  to  en- 
able it  to  understand  a  foreign  pronunciation  is  partly  a 
proof  of  this.  But  take  him  at  any  time  off  his  regular 
lines,  present  a  new  idea  to  him,  and  he  can  be  as  stupid 
as  a  Sussex  farm  labourer.  It  is  the  same  with  America. 
Just  as  the  French  language  imposes  wit  on  its  user,  so  is 
every  American,  man  or  woman,  fitted  at  birth  with  the 
mechanism  of  humour.  Yet  how  few  are  humorous ! 
But  the  cocher  is  not  the  only  cabman  of  Paris: 
there  remains  the  driver  of  the  auto.  The  motor  cab 
has  not  elbowed  out  the  horse  cab  in  Paris  as  it  has  in 
London,  nor  probably  will  it,  for  the  Parisians  are  not 
in  a  hurry;  but  for  Longchamp  and  such  excursions 
the  auto  is  indispensable,  and  the  motor  cabman  be- 
comes more  and  more  a  characteristic  of  the  streets. 
Our  London  chauffeurs  are  sufficiently  implacable, 
blunt  and  churlish,  but  the  Parisian  chauffeur  is  like 
fate.     There  is  no  escape  if  you  enter  his  car :  he  lights 


THE   CHAUFFEUR  243 

his  cigarette,  sinks  his  back  into  his  seat,  and  his 
shoulders  into  his  back,  and  his  head  into  his  shoulders, 
and  drives  like  the  devil.  He  seems  to  have  no  life  of 
his  own  at  all :  he  exists  merely  to  urge  his  car  wherever 
he  is  told.  The  foreigner  has  no  hold  whatever  upon 
the  chauffeur ;  he  arranges  the  meter  to  whatever  tariff 
he  pleases,  and  before  you  can  examine  the  dial  at  the 
end  of  the  journey  he  has  jerked  up  the  flag.  When  you 
keep  him  waiting  his  meter  devours  your  substance. 
Always  terrible,  he  is  worst  in  winter,  when  he  is  dressed 
entirely  in  hearth-rugs.     The  old  cocher  for  me. 

But  it  grows  chilly  and  it  is  dinner  time.  Let  us  go. 
Yet  first  I  would  remind  you  that  we  chose  the  Cafe  de 
la  Paix  for  our  reverie  only  because  it  is  the  centre,  and 
we  were  intent  upon  the  centre.  But  the  pavement 
chairs  of  all  the  cafes  of  Paris  are  interesting,  and  it  is 
equally  good  to  sit  in  any  populous  bourgeois  quarter 
where  one  can  watch  the  daily  indigenous  life  of  this  city, 
which  the  visitor  who  remains  for  the  most  part  in  the 
visitors'  districts  can  so  easily  miss.  The  busy,  capable 
girls  and  women  shopping  —  their  pretty  uncovered 
heads  all  so  neatly  and  deftly  arranged,  and  their  bags 
and  baskets  in  their  hands ;  the  chair  mender  blowing 
his  horn ;  the  teams  of  white  horses,  six  or  eight  in  single 
file,  with  high  collars  and  bells,  drawing  blocks  of  stone 
or  barrels  of  wine;  the  tondeur  de  chiens,  with  his 
mournful  pipe  and  box  of  scissors ;  the  brisk  errand  boys ; 
the  neat  little  milliners  with  their  band-boxes ;  now  and 
then  a  slovenly  soldier  and  a  well-groomed  erect  agent. 
Paris  as  a  spectacle  is  perpetually  new  and  amusing. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE    GRANDS    BOULEVARDS:      II.     THE    OPERA    TO    THE 
PLACE    DE    LA    REPUBLIQUE 

The  Christmas  Baraques  —  The  Rue  de  la  Chaussee  d'Antin  —  The 
Rue  Laffitte  —  La  MuseeGrevin  —  The  Bibliotheque  Nationale  — ■ 
The  Roar  of  Finance  —  Tailors  as  Cartoonists  —  A  Bee-hive  Street 

—  Cities  within  the  City  —  Pompes  Funebres  —  The  Church  as  Ad- 
vertiser —  The  Great  Marguery  —  Gates  which  are  not  Gates  — 
The  Life  of  St.  Denis  —  Highways  from  Paris  —  The  First  Theatre 

—  Martin's  Act  of  Charity  —  The  Arts  et  Metiers;  a  Modern  Cluny 

—  Statues  of  the  Republic. 

IT^ROM  the  Place  de  l'Opera  to  the  Place  de  la  Re- 
.  publique  is  an  interesting  and  instructive  walk, 
but  at  no  time  of  the  day  a  very  easy  one ;  and  between 
five  o'clock  and  half-past  six,  and  eight  and  ten,  on  the 
north  pavement,  it  is  always  almost  a  struggle ;  but  when 
the  baraques  are  in  full  swing  around  Christmas  and  the 
New  Year,  it  is  a  struggle  in  earnest,  at  any  rate  as  far 
as  the  Rue  Drouot.  Indeed  Christmas  and  New  Year, 
but  especially  Christmas  Eve  and  New  Year's  Eve,  are 
great  times  in  France,  and  presents  are  exchanged  as 
furiously  as  with  us. 

On  Christmas  Eve  —  Reveillon  as  it  is  called  —  no 
one  would  do  anything  so  banal  as  to  go  to  bed.  The  re- 
staurants obtain  a  special  permission  to  remain  open, 

244 


A   FREE   GALLERY  245 

and  tables  are  reserved  months  in  advance.  Mont- 
martre,  never  very  sleepy,  takes  on  a  double  share  of 
wakefulness. 

The  first  street  on  our  left,  the  Rue  de  la  Chaussee 
d'Antin,  is  one  of  the  busiest  in  Paris,  with  excellent 
shops  and  many  interesting  associations.  Madame 
Recamier  lived  at  No.  7,  the  site  of  the  Hotel  d'Antin. 
So  also  did  Madame  Necker  and  Madame  Roland,  and 
for  a  while  Edward  Gibbon.  Chopin  lived  at  No.  5. 
This  street,  by  the  way,  has  suffered  almost  more  than 
any  other  from  the  Parisian  fickleness  in  nomenclature. 
It  began  as  the  Rue  de  la  Chaussee  Gaillon,  then  Rue 
de  l'Hotel  Dieu,  then  Rue  de  la  Chaussee  d'Antin,  from 
Richelieu's  Hotel  d'Antin,  then  the  Rue  Mirabeau,  from 
the  revolutionary  who  lodged  and  died  at  No.  42,  then, 
when  Mirabeau's  body  was  removed  ignominiously  from 
the  Pantheon,  the  Rue  Mont  Blanc,  and  in  1815  it  be- 
came once  again  the  Rue  de  la  Chaussee  d'Antin. 

At  the  foot  of  the  Rue  Laffitte  one  should  stop,  be- 
cause one  gets  there  a  glimpse  of  Montmartre's  white 
and  oriental  cathedral,  hanging  in  mid  air  high  above 
Paris  and  the  church  of  Notre  Dame  de  Lorette.  This 
street  is,  to  me,  one  of  the  most  entertaining  in  the  city, 
for  almost  every  other  shop  is  a  picture-dealer's,  and  to 
loaf  along  it,  on  either  side,  is  practically  to  visit  a  gal- 
lery. Two  or  three  of  these  shops  keep  as  a  continual 
sign  the  words  "  Bronzes  de  Barye."  The  Rue  Laffitte 
was  named  after  the  banker  Jacques  Laffitte,  whose  bank 
was  in  the  Rue  de  la  Chaussee  d'Antin.  Cerutti,  who 
delivered  Mirabeau's  funeral  oration,  set  up  his  revolu- 


216  A  WANDERER  IN   PARIS 

tionary  journal  La  Feuille  Villageoise  here.  At  the 
Hot A  Thelusson  at  the  end  of  the  street  the  Incroyables 
and  the  Merveilleuses  assembled.  Among  the  guests 
was  General  Buonaparte,  and  it  was  here  that  he  first 
met  Josephine  Beauharnais. 

The  Musee  Grevin,  to  which  we  soon  come  on  the 
left,  is  the  Parisian  Tussaud's ;  and  it  is  as  much  better 
than  Tussaud's  as  one  would  expect  it  to  be.  Tussaud's 
is  vast  and  brilliant;  the  Musee  Grevin  is  small  and 
mysterious.  There  is  so  little  light  that  everyone  seems 
wax,  and  one  has  to  look  very  narrowly  and  anxiously 
at  all  motionless  figures.  The  particular  boast  of  the 
Grevin  is  its  groups:  not  so  much  the  Pope  and  his 
pontifical  cortege,  the  coulisses  of  the  Opera  (a  scene  of 
coryphees  and  men  about  town)  and  the  Fete  d'Artistes, 
as  the  admirable  tableaux  of  the  Revolution.  To  the 
untutored  eye  of  one  who,  like  myself,  avoids  waxworks, 
the  Grevin  figures  and  grouping  are  good  and,  what  is 
perhaps  more  important,  intelligent.  Pains  have  been 
taken  to  make  costumes  and  accessories  historically  ac- 
curate, and  in  many  cases  the  actual  articles  have  been 
employed,  notably  in  the  largest  tableau  of  all  —  "  Une 
Soiree  a.  Malmaison"  —  which  was  arranged  under  the 
supervision  of  Frederic  Masson,  the  historian,  an  effigy 
of  whom  stands  near  by.  Among  these  scenes  the  his- 
torical sense  of  the  French  child  can  be  really  quickened. 
There  are  also  tableaux  of  Rome  in  the  time  of  the  early 
Christians  —  very  clever  and  painful. 

At  the  Rue  Drouot,  at  the  conjunction  of  the  Boule- 


MADAME  LE   BRUN  ET  SA  FILLE 

MADAME    LE   BRUN 

{Louvre') 


THE   BIBLIOTHEQUE  247 

vards  des  Italiens  and  de  Montmartre,  there  is  an  angle. 
Hitherto  we  have  been  walking  west  by  north ;  we  now 
shall  walk  west  by  south.  From  this  point  we  shall  also 
observe  a  difference  in  the  character  of  the  street,  which 
will  become  steadily  more  bourgeois.  At  this  corner, 
where  the  traffic  is  always  so  congested,  owing  largely 
to  the  omnibuses  with  the  three  white  horses  abreast 
that  cross  to  and  from  the  Rue  Richelieu,  all  the  best 
cafes  are  behind  us. 

If  that  £32,000,000  reconstruction  scheme  of  which  I 
have  already  spoken  comes  to  pass,  this  point  will  be  un- 
recognisable, for  among  the  items  in  that  programme  is 
the  uniting  of  the  Boulevard  Haussmann,  which  now 
comes  to  an  abrupt  end  at  the  Rue  Taitbout,  with  the 
Boulevard  de  Montmartre,  which,  as  a  glance  at  the 
map  will  show,  is  in  a  line  with  it.  But  my  hope  is  that 
the  improvement  will  be  long  deferred. 

It  is  in  the  Rue  Richelieu  that  the  Bibliotheque 
Nationale  stands,  where  the  foreign  resident  in  Paris 
may  read  every  day,  precisely  as  at  the  British  Museum, 
provided  always  that  he  is  certified  by  his  Consul  to  be 
worthy  of  a  ticket,  and  the  visitor  may  on  certain  days 
examine  priceless  books  and  autographs,  prints  and  maps 
and  cameos  and  wonderful  antiquities.  Here  once  lived 
Cardinal  Mazarin,  and  it  is  in  the  galerie  that  bears  his 
name  that  the  rarest  bindings  are  to  be  seen  —  some 
from  Grolier's  own  shelves.  Among  the  MSS.  is  that 
of  Pascal's  Pensees.  The  library,  which  is  now  perhaps 
the  finest  in  existence,  has  been  built  up  steadily  by  the 


248  A   WANDERER   IN   PARIS 

kings  of  France,  even  from  Charlemagne,  but  Louis 
XII.  was  the  first  of  them  who  may  really  be  called  a 
bibliophile,  to  be  worthily  followed  by  Francois  I.  It 
was  not  until  1724,  in  the  reign  of  Louis  XV.,  that  the 
royal  collection  was  removed  to  this  building.  The 
Revolution  greatly  added  to  its  wealth  by  transferring 
hither  the  libraries  of  the  destroyed  convents  and  mon- 
asteries. The  treasures  in  the  Cabinet  de  Medailles  I 
cannot  describe;  all  I  can  say  is  that  they  ought  not 
to  be  missed.  They  may  be  called  an  extension  of  the 
Galerie  d'Apollon  in  the  Louvre. 

Before  leaving  the  Bibliotheque  I  should  add  that  in 
certain  of  its  rooms,  with  an  entrance  in  the  Rue  Vivienne, 
exhibitions  are  periodically  held,  and  it  is  worth  while  to 
ascertain  if  one  is  in  progress.  In  the  spring  of  1908 1  saw 
there  a  most  satisfying  display  of  Rembrandt's  etchings. 

It  was  in  one  of  the  old  book  shops  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  the  Bibliotheque  that  I  received  my  first 
impression  of  the  Paris  Bourse.  I  was  turning  over 
little  pocket  editions  of  Voltaire's  Pucelle  and  naughty 
Crebillons  and  such  ancient  boudoir  fare,  when  I  began 
to  be  conscious  of  a  sound  as  of  a  thousand  boys'  schools 
in  deadly  rivalry.  On  hurrying  out  to  learn  the  cause 
I  found  Paris  in  its  usual  condition  of  self-containment 
and  intent  progress ;  no  one  showed  any  sign  of  inquis- 
itiveness  or  excitement;  but  on  the  steps  of  the  Bourse 
I  observed  a  shouting,  gesticulating  mob  of  men  who 
must,  I  thought,  be  planning  a  new  Reign  of  Terror. 
But  no;    they  were  merely  financiers  engaged  in  the 


THE   THUNDER   OF  THE   BOURSE     249 

ordinary  work  of  life.  The  Bourse  is  free,  and  I  climbed 
the  steps,  pushed  through  the  money-makers,  and  en- 
tered. Never  again.  I  have  seen  men  engaged  in  the 
unlovely  task  of  acquiring  lucre  by  more  or  less  improper 
means  in  various  countries,  but  I  never  saw  anything  so 
horrible  as  the  rapacity  expressed  upon  the  faces  of  this 
heated  Bourse  populace. 

Capel  Court  is  not  indifferent  to  the  advantages  of  a 
successful  coup,  but  Capel  Court  differs  from  the  Bourse 
not  only  in  a  comparative  retention  of  its  head,  but  also 
in  a  certain  superficial  appearance  of  careless  aristocracy. 
Capel  Court  dresses  well  and  keeps  time  for  a  practical 
joke  now  and  then.  The  Bourse  is  shabby  and  in  the 
grip  of  avarice.  Wall  Street  and  the  Chicago  pit,  I  am 
told,  are  worse:  I  have  not  seen  them;  but  no  race- 
course scramble  for  odds  could  exceed  the  horrors  of  that 
day  in  the  Bourse.  The  home,  by  the  way,  of  this  daily 
vociferous  service  of  Mammon  was  built  on  the  site  of 
the  old  convent  of  the  Filles  de  St.  Thomas.  During 
the  Revolution  the  connection  between  the  Bourse  and 
Heaven  was  even  closer,  for  the  church  of  the  Petits 
Peres  was  then  set  apart  for  Exchange  purposes. 

Returning  to  the  point  where  we  left  the  Boulevard 
—  at  the  Rue  Richelieu  —  I  am  moved  to  ask  what 
would  happen  in  London  if  Messrs.  Baker  in  the  Totten- 
ham Court  Road  or  Messrs.  Gardiner  in  Knightsbridge 
were  suddenly  to  break  out  into  caricature  and  embellish 
their  windows  with  scarifying  cartoons  of  Kings,  Kaisers, 
Presidents  and  Premiers  ?    The  question  may  sound  odd, 


250  A   WANDERER  IN  PARIS 

but  it  is  simple  enough  if  you  visit  the  High  Life  tailor 
at  the  corner  of  the  Rue  Richelieu,  or,  farther  east,  a 
similar  establishment  at  the  corner  of  the  Rue  de  Rouge- 
mont,  for  it  then  becomes  obvious  that  it  is  quite  part 
of  the  duties  of  the  large  Parisian  clothier  to  do  his  part 
in  forming  public  opinion.  These  cartoons  are  always 
bold  and  clever,  although  often  too  municipal  for  the 
foreigner's  apprehension. 

I  have  said  somewhere  that  one  of  my  favourite  streets 
in  Paris  is  the  Rue  Montorgeuil.  That  is  largely,  as  I 
have  explained,  because  it  is  old  and  narrow,  and  the 
people  swarm  in  it,  and  the  stalls  are  so  many,  and  the 
houses  are  high  and  white  and  take  the  sun  so  bravely, 
and  it  smells  of  Paris ;  and  also,  of  course,  because  the 
Compas  d'Or  is  here,  bringing  the  middle  ages  so  nigh. 
Another  favourite  is  the  Rue  du  Faubourg-de-Mont- 
martre  (which  is  now  the  next  on  the  left  eastward)  for 
its  busy  happy  shops  and  its  moving  multitudes.  In  its 
own  narrow  way  it  is  almost  as  crowded  as  the  Grands 
Boulevards. 

A  little  way  up  this  street,  on  the  right,  is  a  gateway 
leading  into  a  very  curious  backwater,  as  noticeably  quiet 
as  the  highways  are  noisy  and  restless :  the  Cite  Bergere, 
the  largest  of  those  cites  within  a  cite  of  which  Paris  has 
several,  to  be  compared  in  London  only  with  St.  Helen's 
Place  in  Bishopsgate  or  Park  Row  at  Knightsbridge. 
The  Cite  Bergere  is  practically  nothing  but  hotels  — 
high  and  narrow,  with  dirty  white  walls  and  dirty  green 
shutters  —  very  cheap,  and  very  incurious  as  to  the  occu- 


POMPES   FUNEBRES  251 

pations  of  their  guests,  whether  male  or  female.  It  has  a 
gate  at  each  end  which  is  closed  at  night  and  penetrated 
thereafter  only  at  the  goodwill  of  the  concierge,  whom 
it  is  well  to  placate.  The  Cite  Bergere  leads  into  the 
Cite  Rougemont  (hence  offering  an  opportunity  to  an 
innkeeper  between  the  two  to  hang  out  the  imposing 
sign  of  the  Hotel  des  Deux  Cites),  and  from  the  Cite 
Rougemont  you  gain  that  district  of  Paris  where  the 
woollen  merchants  congregate. 

Returning  to  the  Grands  Boulevards,  the  next  street 
on  the  left  is  the  Rue  Rougemont,  and  if  we  take  this 
we  come  in  a  few  moments  to  the  Conservatoire,  where 
so  many  famous  musicians  have  been  taught,  and  where 
Coquelin  and  Sarah  Bernhardt  learned  the  art  of  elocu- 
tion. There  is  a  little  museum  at  the  Conservatoire  in 
which  every  variety  of  musical  instrument  is  preserved, 
together  with  a  few  personal  relics,  such  as  a  cast  of 
Paganini's  nervous  magical  hand,  with  its  long  sharply 
pointed  fingers,  and  the  death-mask  of  Chopin. 

Close  to  the  Conservatoire  is  the  darkest  church  in 
Paris  —  Saint  Eugene,  a  favourite  spot  for  funeral  ser- 
vices. I  chanced  once  to  stay  in  a  room  overlooking 
this  church,  until  the  smell  of  mortality  became  too 
constant.  There  was  a  funeral  every  day :  every  morn- 
ing the  undertakers'  men  were  busy  in  the  preparations 
for  the  ceremony  —  draping  the  facade  with  heavy  cur- 
tains of  a  blackness  that  seemed  to  darken  the  circum- 
ambient air :  every  afternoon  removing  it,  together  with 
the  other  trappings  of  the  ritual  —  the  candlesticks  and 


252  A   WANDERER   IN   PARIS 

furniture.  It  is  not  without  reason  that  the  French 
undertaker  ambushes  beneath  the  imposing  style  of 
Pompes  Funebres. 

It  was,  by  the  way,  on  the  walls  of  Saint  Eugene, 
each  side  of  the  door,  that  I  first  saw  any  of  those 
curious  affiehes,  made,  I  suppose,  necessary,  or  at  any 
rate  prudent,  by  recent  events  in  France,  directing  notice 
to  —  advertising,  I  almost  wrote,  and  indeed  why  not  ? — 
the  advantages  of  religion.  Religion  (this  is  what  the 
notice  came  to  in  essence),  religion  has  its  points  after  all. 
When  President  Fallieres'  daughter  was  married,  it  re- 
marked, where  was  the  ceremony  performed  ?  In  a  church. 
(Ha  Ha  !)  Who,  it  asked,  is  called  to  visit  a  man  on  his 
death-bed,  no  matter  how  wicked  he  has  been  ?  A  priest. 
(Touche  !)     And  so  forth.     Surely  a  strange  document. 

In  the  same  street  is  an  old  book-stall  whose  shelves 
are  fastened  to  the  wall,  giving  the  appearance  of  an 
open-air  library  for  all  —  the  Carnegie  idea  at  its  best. 
There  used  to  be  one  on  the  side  of  the  Hotel  Chatham 
in  the  Rue  Volney  (opposite  Henry's  excellent  American 
Bar)  but  it  has  now  gone. 

We  may  regain  the  Boulevards  by  turning  down  the 
long  Rue  du  Faubourg  Poissoniere,  which  leads  direct, 
through  the  Rue  Montorgeuil,  to  the  Halles  and  the 
Pont  Neuf  —  a  very  good  walk.  Passing  Marguery's 
great  restaurant  on  the  left,  famous  for  its  filet  de  sole 
in  a  special  sauce,  which  everyone  should  eat  once  if 
only  to  see  the  great  Marguery  on  his  triumphant  pro- 
gress through  the  rooms,  bending  his  white  mane  over 


ST.   DENIS  253 

honoured  guests,  we  come  to  a  strange  thing  —  a  massive 
archway  in  the  road,  parallel  with  the  pavements,  which 
I  think  needs  a  little  explanation.  It  will  take  us  far 
from  the  Grands  Boulevards :  as  far,  in  fact,  as  The 
Golden  Legend;  for  the  arch  is  the  Porte  St.  Denis,  and 
St.  Denis  is  the  patron  saint  of  Paris. 

St.  Denis  was  not  a  Frenchman  but  an  Athenian, 
who  was  converted  by  St.  Paul  in  person,  after  consider- 
able discussion.  Indeed,  discussion  was  not  enough :  it 
needed  a  miracle  to  win  him  wholly.  "And  as,"  wrote 
Caxton,  "S.  Denis  disputed  yet  with  S.  Paul,  there 
passed  by  adventure  by  that  way  a  blind  man  tof  ore  them, 
and  anon  Denis  said  to  Paul :  If  thou  say  to  this  blind 
man  in  the  name  of  thy  God :  See,  and  then  he  seeth,  I 
shall  anon  believe  in  him,  but  thou  shalt  use  no  words 
of  enchantment,  for  thou  mayst  haply  know  some  words 
that  have  such  might  and  virtue.  And  S.  Paul  said : 
I  shall  write  tofore  the  form  of  the  words,  which  be 
these :  In  the  name  of  Jesu  Christ,  born  of  the  virgin, 
crucified  and  dead,  which  arose  again  and  ascended  into 
heaven,  and  from  thence  shall  come  for  to  judge  the 
world:  See.  And  because  that  all  suspicion  be  taken 
away,  Paul  said  to  Denis  that  he  himself  should  pro- 
nounce the  words.  And  when  Denis  had  said  those 
words  in  the  same  manner  to  the  blind  man,  anon  the 
blind  man  recovered  his  sight.  And  then  Denis  was 
baptized  and  Damaris  his  wife  and  all  his  meiny,  and 
was  a  true  Christian  man  and  was  instructed  and  taught 
by  S.  Paul  three  years,  and  was  ordained  bishop  of 


254  A   WANDERER   IN   PARIS 

Athens,  and  there  was  in  predication,  and  converted  that 
city,  and  great  part  of  the  region,  to  christian  faith." 

Denis  was  sent  to  France  by  Pope  Clement,  and  he 
converted  many  Parisians  and  built  many  churches, 
until  the  hostile  strategy  of  the  Emperor  Domitian  pre- 
vailed and  he  was  tortured,  the  scene  of  the  tragedy 
being  Montmartre.  "  The  day  following,"  says  Caxton, 
"Denis  was  laid  upon  a  gridiron,  and  stretched  all 
naked  upon  the  coals  of  fire,  and  there  he  sang  to  our 
Lord  saying:  Lord  thy  word  is  vehemently  fiery,  and 
thy  servant  is  embraced  in  the  love  thereof.  And  after 
that  he  was  put  among  cruel  beasts,  which  were  excited 
by  great  hunger  and  famine  by  long  fasting,  and  as 
soon  as  they  came  running  upon  him  he  made  the  sign 
of  the  cross  against  them,  and  anon  they  were  made 
most  meek  and  tame.  And  after  that  he  was  cast  into  a 
furnace  of  fire,  and  the  fire  anon  quenched,  and  he  had 
neither  pain  ne  harm.  And  after  that  he  was  put  on 
the  cross,  and  thereon  he  was  long  tormented,  and  after, 
he  was  taken  down  and  put  into  a  dark  prison  with  his 
fellows  and  many  other  Christian  men. 

"And  as  he  sang  there  the  mass  and  communed  the 
people,  our  Lord  appeared  to  him  with  great  light,  and 
delivered  to  him  bread,  saying:  Take  this,  my  dear 
friend,  for  thy  reward  is  most  great  with  me.  After 
this  they  were  presented  to  the  judge  and  were  put 
again  to  new  torments,  and  then  he  did  do  smite  off 
the  heads  of  the  three  fellows,  that  is  to  say,  Denis, 
Rusticus,  and  Eleutherius,  in  confessing  the  name  of 
the  holy  Trinity.     And  this  was  done  by  the  temple  of 


A   GREAT   HIGHWAY  255 

Mercury,  and  they  were  beheaded  with  three  axes.  And 
anon  the  body  of  St.  Denis  raised  himself  up,  and  bare 
his  head  between  his  arms,  as  the  angel  led  him  two 
leagues  from  the  place,  which  is  said  the  hill  of  the 
martyrs,  unto  the  place  where  he  now  resteth,  by  his 
election,  and  by  the  purveyance  of  God.  And  there 
was  heard  so  great  and  sweet  a  melody  of  angels  that 
many  of  them  that  heard  it  believed  in  our  Lord." 

Anyone  making  the  pilgrimage  from,  say,  Notre 
Dame  to  the  town  of  St.  Denis  to-day,  can  follow  the 
saint's  footsteps,  for  the  Rue  St.  Denis  at  the  foot  of 
Montmartre  leads  out  into  the  Rue  du  Faubourg  St. 
Denis,  and  that  street  right  over  Montmartre,  Caxton's 
hill  of  the  martyrs,  to  St.  Denis  itself.  I  do  not  pretend 
that  the  legend  as  it  is  thus  given  has  not  been  sub- 
jected to  severe  criticism ;  but  when  one  has  no  certain 
knowledge,  the  best  story  can  be  considered  the  best 
evidence,  and  I  like  Caxton  better  than  the  others,  even 
though  it  conflicts  a  little  with  the  legend  of  St. 
Genevieve.  It  is  she,  I  might  add,  who  is  credited  with 
having  inaugurated  the  pilgrimage  to  St.  Denis'  bones. 

The  Rue  St.  Denis  was  more  than  the  road  to  the 
saint's  remains :  it  was  the  great  north  road  out  of  Paris 
to  the  sea.  Just  as  the  old  Londoners  bound  for  the 
north  left  by  the  City  Road  and  passed  through  the 
village  of  Highgate,  so  did  the  French  traveller  leave 
by  the  Rue  St.  Denis  and  pass  through  the  village  of 
St.  Denis.  Similarly  the  Rue  St.  Martin  was  the  high- 
road to  Germany.  In  the  old  days,  when  this  street 
was  a  highway,  the  Porte  St.  Denis  had  some  meaning, 


256  A   WANDERER   IN   PARIS 

for  it  stood  as  a  gateway  between  the  city  and  the 
country;  but  to-day,  when  the  course  of  traffic  is  east 
and  west,  it  stands  (like  the  Porte  St.  Martin)  merely  as 
an  obstruction  in  the  Grand  Boulevard  —  not  quite  so 
foolish  as  our  own  revised  Marble  Arch,  but  nearly 
so.  The  Porte  St.  Denis  dates  from  1673  and  cele- 
brates, as  the  bas-reliefs  indicate,  the  triumphs  of 
Louis  XIV.  in  Germany  and  Holland ;  the  Porte 
St.  Martin  (to  which  we  are  just  coming)  belongs  to 
the  same  period  and  commemorates  other  successes  of 
the  same  monarch. 

The  Rue  St.  Denis  is  one  of  the  most  entertaining 
of  the  old  streets  of  Paris,  although  adulterated  a  little 
by  omnibuses  and  a  sense  of  commerce.  But  to  have 
boundless  time  before  one,  and  no  cares,  and  no  fatigue, 
and  starting  at  the  Porte  St.  Denis  to  loiter  along  it 
prepared  to  penetrate  every  inviting  court  and  alluring 
by-street  —  that  is  a  great  luxury.  The  first  theatre  in 
Paris,  and  indeed  in  France,  was  in  the  Hospital  of  the 
Trinity  in  the  Rue  St.  Denis.  That  was  early  in  the 
fifteenth  century,  and  it  was  designed  for  the  perform- 
ance of  Mystery  plays  in  which  the  protagonist  was,  of 
course,  Jesus  Christ.  Paris  has  now  many  theatres, 
with  other  ideals ;  but  whatever  their  programmes  may 
be,  they  proceed  from  that  early  and  pious  spring. 

We  come  next  to  the  Boulevard  de  Strasbourg,  run- 
ning north  to  the  Gare  de  l'Est,  and  the  Boulevard 
de  Sebastopol,  running  south  to  the  He  de  la  Cite; 
and  then  to  the  second  archway,  the  Porte  St.  Martin. 


ST.   MARTIN  257 

St.  Martin  (who  was  Bishop  of  Tours)  lived  in  Paris  for 
a  while,  and  it  was  here  that  he  performed  the  miracle 
of  healing  a  leper  by  embracing  him  —  an  act  commem- 
orated by  Henri  I.  in  the  founding  of  the  Priory  of  St. 
Martin,  which  stood  a  little  way  down  the  Rue  St. 
Martin  on  the  left,  on  a  site  on  which  the  Musee  des 
Arts  et  Metiers  now  stands.  But  it  was  at  Amiens 
that  the  saint's  most  beautiful  act  —  the  gift  of  his  cloak 
to  a  beggar  —  was  performed,  and  perhaps  I  may  be 
allowed  to  quote  here,  from  another  book  of  mine,  the 
translation  of  a  poem  by  M.  Haraucourt,  the  curator  of 
the  Cluny  museum,  celebrating  that  deed :  — 

CHARITY 

Because  so  bitter  was  the  rain, 
Saint  Martin  cut  his  cloak  in  twain, 

And  gave  the  beggar  half  of  it 
To  cover  him  and  ease  his  pain. 

But  being  now  himself  ill  clad, 
The  Saint's  own  case  was  no  less  sad. 

So  piteously  cold  the  night; 
Though  glad  at  heart  he  was,  right  glad. 

Thus,  singing,  on  his  way  he  passed, 
While  Satan,  grim  and  overcast, 

Vowing  the  Saint  should  rue  his  deed, 
Released  the  cruel  Northern  blast. 

Away  it  sprang  with  shriek  and  roar, 
And  buffeted  the  Saint  full  sore, 

Yet  never  wished  he  for  his  cloak; 
So  Satan  bade  the  deluge  pour. 
Huge  hail-stones  joined  in  the  attack, 
And  dealt  Saint  Martin  many  a  thwack, 

"My  poor  old  head!"  he  smiling  said, 
Yet  never  wished  his  cape  were  back. 
S 


258  A   WANDERER    IN   PARIS 

"He  must,  he  shall,"  cried  Satan,  "know 
Regret  for  such  an  act,"  and  lo, 

E'en  as  he  spoke  the  world  was  dark 
With  fog  and  frost  and  whirling  snow. 

Saint  Martin,  struggling  toward  his  goal, 
Mused  thoughtfully,  "Poor  soul!    poor  soul  I 

What  use  to  him  was  half  a  cloak? 
I  should  have  given  him  the  whole." 

The  cold  grew  terrible  to  bear, 
The  birds  fell  frozen  in  the  air: 

"Fall  thou,"  said  Satan,  "on  the  ice, 
Fall  thou  asleep,  and  perish  there." 

He  fell,  and  slept,  despite  the  storm, 

And  dreamed  he  saw  the  Christ  Child's  form 

Wrapped  in  the  half  the  beggar  took, 
And  seeing  Him,  was  warm,  so  warm. 

The  Arts  et  Metiers  is  a  museum  devoted  to  the 
progress  of  mechanics  and  the  useful  crafts :  a  kind  of 
industrial  exhibition,  a  modern  utilitarian  Cluny.  It 
is  a  memorial  of  the  world's  ingenuity  and  the  ingenuity 
of  France  in  particular,  and  one  cannot  have  a  much 
better  reminder  that  the  frivolity  of  the  Grands  Boule- 
vards is  not  all.  Apropos,  however,  of  the  frivolity  of 
the  Grands  Boulevards,  I  may  say  that  the  case  that 
was  attracting  most  interest  on  the  Sunday  that  I  was 
here  contained  a  collection  of  all  the  best  mechanical 
toys  of  the  past  dozen  years,  with  their  dates  affixed. 
The  only  article  in  the  vast  building  which  seemed  to 
serve  no  useful  purpose  was  a  mirror  cracked  during  the 
Commune  by  a  bullet,  with  the  bullet  still  in  it.  In  the 
square  opposite  the  Musee  is  the  statue  of  Beranger,  who 
for  many  years  made  the  ballads  of  the  French  nation. 


THE    PORTE   ST.    DENIS 

(SOUTH    I  ai    \hi   ) 


THE   REPUBLIC  259 

Returning  to  the  Grands  Boulevards  once  more,  we 
pass  first  the  Porte  St.  Martin  theatre,  where  the  great 
Coquelin  played  Cyrano,  and  where  he  was  rehears- 
ing Chanticlere  when  he  died,  and  then  the  Ambigu, 
home  of  sensational  melodrama,  and  come  very  shortly 
to  the  Place  de  la  Republique,  with  its  great  central 
monument.  The  Republic  thus  celebrated  is  not  merely 
the  Third  and  present  Republic,  but  all  the  efforts  in 
that  direction  which  the  French  have  made,  as  the 
twelve  reliefs  round  the  base  will  show,  for  they  begin 
with  the  scene  in  the  Jeu  de  Paume  in  1789,  and  end 
with  the  National  Fete  on  July  14th,  1880.  Paris  would 
still  have  statues  of  the  Republique  if  this  were  to  go, 
for  there  is  one  by  Dalou,  the  sculptor  of  these  bas- 
reliefs,  in  the  Place  de  la  Nation,  and  another  by  Soitoux 
at  the  Institut.  Dalou  (whose  work  we  saw  in  such 
profusion  at  the  Little  Palace  in  the  Champs-Elysees) 
made  a  very  spirited  and  characteristic  group,  with  the 
Republic  standing  high  on  a  chariot  being  drawn  by 
lions  and  urged  forward  by  an  ouvrier  and  an  ouvriere. 

There  is  another  and  hardly  less  direct  walk  eastward 
to  the  Place  de  la  Republique,  which,  taken  slowly  and 
amusedly,  instructs  one  as  fully  in  the  manners  of  the 
busy  small  Parisian  as  the  Boulevards  in  those  of  the 
flaneur.  This  route  is  by  the  Rue  de  Provence,  the 
Rue  Richer,  the  Rue  des  Petites-Ecuries  and  the  Rue 
Chateau-d'Eau  —  practically  a  straight  line,  and  in  the 
old  days  a  highway.  You  see  the  small  Parisian  at  his 
busiest  —  at  her  busiest  —  this  way. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

MONTMARTRE 

Steep  Streets  —  The  Musee  Moreau  —  The  Sacre"-Cceur  —  Francoise- 
Marguerite  —  Paris  and  Her  Beggars  —  A  Ferocious  Cripple  — 
The  Communard  Insurrection  —  The  Maison  Dufayel  —  Heinrich 
Heine  —  The  Cimetiere  de  Montmartre  —  The  Boulevard  de  Clichy 
—  Cabarets  Good  and  Bad  —  An  Aged  Statesman  is  Entertained  — 
Three  Bals  —  Paris  and  Late  Hours  —  The  Night  Cafes  —  The 
Tireless  Dancers  —  A  Coat-tail  —  The  Dead  Maitre  d'Hotel. 

ONE  may  gain  Montmartre  by  every  street  that 
runs  off  the  Grands  Boulevards  on  the  left,  be- 
tween the  Opera  and  the  Place  de  la  Republique ;  but 
when  the  night  falls  and  the  tide  begins  to  turn  that 
way,  it  is  the  Rue  Blanche  and  the  Rue  Pigalle  that  do 
most  of  the  work.  All  are  very  steep.  To  the  way- 
farer climbing  the  hill  in  no  hurry,  I  recommend  for 
its  interest  the  Rue  des  Martyrs  (Balzac  once  lived  at 
No.  47),  leading  out  of  the  Rue  Laffitte;  or,  starting 
from  the  Boulevards  at  a  more  easterly  point,  one  may 
gain  it  by  the  Rue  du  Faubourg  Montmartre,  which  runs 
into  the  Rue  des  Martyrs  at  Notre  Dame  de  Lorette 
and  is  full  of  activity  and  variety. 

By  taking  the  Rue  de  la  Rochefoucauld  one  may 
spend  a  few  minutes  in  a  little  white  building  there 

260 


A   VAIN  ARTIST  261 

which  was  once  the  home  and  studio  of  the  painter 
Gustave  Moreau  and  is  now  left  to  the  nation  as  a 
permanent  memorial  of  his  labours.  In  industry  the 
man  must  have  approached  Rubens  and  Rembrandt, 
for  this,  though  a  large  house,  is  literally  filled  with 
paintings  and  drawings  and  studies,  which  not  only 
cover  the  walls  but  cover  screens  built  into  the  walls, 
and  screens  within  screens,  and  screens  within  those. 
The  menuisier  and  Moreau  together  have  contrived  to 
make  No.  14  Rue  de  la  Rochefoucauld  the  most  tiring 
house  in  Paris  —  at  least  to  me,  who  do  not  admire 
the  work  of  this  painter,  or  at  any  rate  do  not  want 
to  see  more  of  it  than  is  in  the  Luxembourg,  where 
may  be  seen  several  of  his  pictures,  including  the  most 
famous  of  all,  the  Salome.  Herr  Baedeker  considers 
that  Moreau's  works  have  a  charm  of  their  own,  but 
I  do  not  find  it.  I  find  a  striving  after  the  grandiose 
and  startling,  with  only  occasional  lapses  into  sincerity 
and  good  colour.  It  is  better  than  Wiertz,  no  doubt; 
but  less  entertaining,  because  less  shocking. 

Montmartre's  life  may  for  our  purpose  be  divided 
into  three  distinct  periods:  day,  evening,  and  the  small 
hours.  By  day  one  may  roam  its  streets  of  living  and 
of  dead  and  study  Paris  from  its  summit ;  in  the  evening 
its  cabarets  are  in  full  swing;  and  then  comes  mid- 
night when  its  supper  cafes  open,  not  to  close  or  cease 
their  melodies  until  the  shops  are  doing  business  again. 

Montmartre  (so  called  because  it  was  here  that  St. 
Denis  and  his  associates  were  put  to  death)  really  is  a 


262  A   WANDERER   IN   PARIS 

mountain,  as  anyone  who  has  climbed  to  the  Sacre- 
Coeur  can  tell.  The  last  two  hundred  yards  are  indeed 
nearly  as  steep  as  the  Brecon  Beacons ;  but  the  climb  is 
worth  it  if  only  for  the  view  of  Paris.  (There  is,  how- 
ever, a  funicular  railway.)  As  for  the  cathedral,  that 
seems  to  me  to  be  better  seen  and  appreciated  from  the 
distance :  from  the  train  as  one  enters  Paris  in  the  late 
afternoon,  with  the  level  sun  lighting  its  pure  walls ; 
from  the  heights  on  the  south  side  of  the  river;  from 
the  Boulevard  des  Italiens  up  the  Rue  Laffitte;  and 
from  the  Buttes-Chaumont,  as  in  Mr.  Dexter's  ex- 
quisite drawing.  For  the  cathedral  itself  is  not  particu- 
larly attractive  near  at  hand,  and  within  it  is  cold  and 
dull  and  still  awaiting  its  glass.  It  was,  however,  one 
of  the  happiest  thoughts  that  has  come  to  Rome  in 
our  time  to  set  this  fascinating  bizarre  Oriental  building 
here.  It  gave  Paris  a  new  note  that  it  will  now  never 
lose. 

Before  leaving,  one  ought  perhaps  to  have  a  peep  at 
Francoise-Marguerite,  for  one  is  not  likely  to  see  her 
equal  again.  Francoise-Marguerite,  otherwise  known 
as  La  Savoyarde  de  Montmartre,  is  the  great  bell  given 
to  the  cathedral  by  the  province  of  Savoy.  She  weighs 
nineteen  tons,  is  nine  feet  tall  and  her  voice  has  remark- 
able timbre. 

Behind  the  new  cathedral  lies  the  old  church  of  St. 
Pierre-de-Montmartre,  on  the  side  of  which,  it  is  said, 
once  stood  a  temple  of  Mars.  (Hence,  for  some  lexico- 
graphers, Mont  Mars  and  Montmartre ;  but  I  prefer  to 


THE   MENDICANTS  263 

think  of  St.  Denis  wandering  here  without  his  head.) 
It  was  in  the  crypt  of  this  church,  I  have  somewhere 
read,  that  Ignatius  Loyola,  with  Xavier  and  Laine, 
founded  the  order  of  Jesuits. 

I  attended  early  mass  at  the  Sacre-Cceur  church  on 
January  1st,  1908.  It  was  snowing  lightly  and  very 
cold,  and  as  I  came  away,  at  about  eight,  and  descended 
the  hill  towards  Paris,  I  was  struck  by  the  spectacle 
of  the  lame  and  blind  and  miserable  men  and  women 
who  were  appearing  mysteriously  from  nowhere  to  de- 
scend the  hill  too,  groping  and  hobbling  down  the 
slippery  steepnesses.  Such  folk  are  an  uncommon  sight 
in  Paris,  where  everyone  seems  to  be,  if  not  robust,  at 
any  rate  active  and  capable,  and  where,  although  it 
eminently  belongs  to  the  poor  as  much  as  to  the  rich, 
extreme  poverty  is  rarely  seen.  In  London,  where  the 
poor  convey  no  possessive  impression,  but,  except  in 
their  own  quarters,  suggest  that  they  are  here  on 
sufferance,  one  sees  much  distress.  In  Paris  none, 
except  on  this  day,  the  first  of  the  year  —  and  on  one 
or  two  others,  such  as  July  14th  —  when  beggars  are 
allowed  to  ask  alms  in  the  streets.  For  the  rest  of  the 
year  they  must  hide  their  misery  and  their  want,  al- 
though I  still  tremble  a  little  as  I  remember  the  im- 
portunities of  the  Montmartre  cripple  of  ferocious  aspect 
and  no  legs  at  all,  fixed  into  a  packing-case  on  wheels, 
who,  having  demanded  alms  in  vain,  hauls  himself  night 
after  night  along  the  pavement  after  the  hard-hearted, 
urging  his  torso's  chariot  by  powerful  strokes  of  his 


264  A   WANDERER   IN   PARIS 

huge  hands  on  the  pavement,  as  though  he  rowed 
against  Leander,  with  such  menacing  fury  that  I  for  one 
have  literally  taken  to  my  heels.  He  is  the  only  beggar 
I  recollect  meeting  except  on  the  permitted  days,  and 
then  Paris  swarms  with   them. 

Standing  on  the  dome  of  the  cathedral  one  has  the 
city  at  one's  feet,  not  as  wonderfully  as  on  the  Eiffel 
Tower,  but  nearly  so.  From  the  Buttes-Chaumont  we 
see  Montmartre;  here  we  see  the  Buttes-Chaumont, 
which,  before  it  was  a  park,  shared  with  Montmartre 
the  gypsum  quarries  from  which  plaster  of  Paris  is 
made.  Beyond  the  Buttes-Chaumont  is  Pere  Lachaise, 
a  hill  strangely  mottled  by  its  grave-stones,  while  im- 
mediately below  us  is  the  Cimetiere  du  Nord,  which  we 
are  about  to  visit  for  the  sake  of  certain  very  interesting 
tombs. 

One  realises  quickly  the  strategical  value  of  this  moun- 
tain. Paris  has  indeed  been  bombarded  from  it  twice 
—  by  Henri  IV.,  and  again,  only  thirty-eight  years  ago. 
It  was  indeed  on  Montmartre  that  the  Communard  in- 
surrection began,  for  it  was  the  cannon  on  these  heights 
that  the  rebel  soldiers  at  once  made  for  after  the  assassi- 
nation of  their  officers.  They  held  them  for  a  while, 
but  were  then  overpowered  and  forced  to  take  up  their 
quarters  in  the  Buttes-Chaumont  and  Pere  Lachaise, 
which  were  shelled  by  the  National  Guard  from  Mont- 
martre until  the  brief  but  terrible  mutiny  was  over. 

The  great  dome,  close  by  us  on  the  left,  which  might 
be   another   Pantheon,   crowns   the   Maison   Dufayel. 


THE   BED   KING  265 

Who  is  Dufayel  ?  you  ask.  Well,  who  is  Wanamaker, 
who  was  Whiteley  ?  M.  Dufayel  is  the  head  of  the  gigan- 
tic business  in  the  boulevard  Barbes,  a  northern  contin- 
uation of  the  Boulevard  de  Magenta.  His  advertise- 
ments are  on  every  hoarding.  I  think  the  Maison 
Dufayel  is  well  worth  a  visit,  especially  as  there  is  no 
need  to  buy  anything :  you  may  instead  sip  an  aperitif, 
listen  to  the  band  or  watch  the  cinematoscope.  One 
also  need  have  none  of  that  fear  of  what  would  happen 
were  there  to  be  a  sudden  panic  which  always  keeps  me 
nervous  if  ever  I  am  lured  into  the  Magasins  du  Louvre 
or  the  Galerie  Lafayette;  for  at  Dufayel's  there  is 
space,  whereas  at  those  vast  shopping  centres  there  is 
a  congestion  that  in  a  time  of  stress  would  lead  to  per- 
fectly awful  results.  The  Maison  Dufayel  is  not  so 
varied  a  repository  as  Wanamaker's  or  Whiteley's,  but 
in  its  way  it  is  hardly  less  remarkable.  Its  principal 
line  is  furniture,  and  I  never  saw  so  many  beds  in  my 
life.  It  was  M.  Dufayel  who  brought  to  perfection  the 
deposit  system  of  payment,  and  his  agents  continually 
range  the  otherwise  pleasant  land  of  France,  collect- 
ing instalments. 

Since  I  had  wandered  into  this  monstrous  establish- 
ment, which  may  not  be  as  large  as  Harrod's  Stores  but 
feels  infinitely  vaster,  I  determined  to  buy  something, 
and  decided  at  last  upon  a  French  picture  book  for  an 
English  child.  Buying  it  was  a  simple  operation,  but 
I  then  made  the  mistake  of  asking  that  it  might  be 
sent  to  England  direct.  One  should  never  do  that  in  a 
bureaucratic  country.     The  lady  led  me  for  what  seemed 


266  A   WANDERER   IN   PARIS 

several  miles  through  various  departments  until  we  came 
late  in  the  day  to  rows  and  rows  of  Frenchmen  and 
Frenchwomen  each  in  a  little  glass  box.  These  boxes 
were  numbered  and  ran  to  hundreds.  We  stopped  at 
last  before,  say,  157,  where  my  guide  left  me.  The 
Frenchman  in  the  box  denied  at  once  that  the  book  could 
go  by  post.  It  was  too  large.  It  must  go  by  rail.  For 
myself,  I  did  not  then  care  how  it  went  or  if  it  went  at 
all:  I  was  tired  out.  Feeling  that  such  an  act  as  to 
abandon  the  parcel  and  run  would  be  misconstrued  and 
resented  in  a  home  of  such  perfect  mechanical  order,  I 
waited  until  he  had  written  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  in 
a  fine  flowing  hand  with  a  pen  sharper  than  a  serpent's 
tooth,  and  then  I  paid  the  required  number  of  francs  and 
set  out  on  the  desperate  errand  of  finding  the  street 
again.  The  book  was  a  week  on  its  journey.  Go  to 
Dufayel's,  I  say,  most  certainly,  for  it  is  quite  amusing ; 
but  go  when  you  are  young  and  strong. 

To  me  the  most  interesting  thing  on  Montmartre  is 
the  grave  of  Heinrich  Heine  in  the  Cimetiere  du  Nord, 
a  strange  irregular  city  of  dead  Parisians  all  tidily  laid 
away  in  their  homes  in  its  many  streets,  over  which  a 
busy  rumbling  thoroughfare  has  been  carried  on  a  viaduct. 
I  had  Heine's  Salon  with  me  when  I  was  last  in  Paris, 
and  I  sought  his  grave  again  one  afternoon  with  an  in- 
creased sense  of  intimacy.  A  medallion  portrait  of  the 
mournful  face  is  cut  in  the  marble,  and  on  the  grave 
itself  are  wistful  echoes  of  the  Buck  der  Lieder.  A  little 
tin  receptacle  is  fixed  to  the  stone,  and  I  looked  at  the 


w 

Q    z   i 

> 
O 


blai 
tin 


SACRED   GROUND  267 

cards  which  in  the  pretty  German  way  visitors  had  left 
upon  the  poet  and  his  wife;  for  Frau  Heine  too  lies 
here.  All  were  German  and  all  rain-soaked  (or  was  it 
tears  ?). 

Matthew  Arnold  in  his  poem  called  Heine's  grave 
black:  the  present  one  is  white.  How  do  the  lines 
run? 

"Henri  Heine'" 'tis  here! 

That  black  tombstone,  the  name 

Carved  there  —  no  more !   and  the  smooth, 

Swarded  alleys,  the  limes 

Touch'd  with  yellow  by  hot 

Summer,  but  under  them  still, 

In  September's  bright  afternoon, 

Shadow,  and  verdure,  and  cool. 

Trim  Montmartre !   the  faint 

Murmur  of  Paris  outside; 

Crisp  everlasting-flowers, 

Yellow  and  black,  on  the  graves. 

Half  blind,  palsied,  in  pain, 
Hither  to  come,  from  the  streets' 
Uproar,  surely  not  loath 
Wast  thou,  Heine !  —  to  lie 
Quiet,  to  ask  for  closed 
Shutters,  and  darken'd  room, 
And  cool  drinks,  and  an  eased 
Posture,  and  opium,  no  more; 
Hither  to  come,  and  to  sleep 
Under  the  wings  of  Renown. 

Ah!    not  little,  when  pain 
Is  most  quelling,  and  man 
Easily  quell'd,  and  the  fine 
Temper  of  genius  so  soon 
Thrills  at  each  smart,  is  the  praise, 
Not  to  have  yielded  to  pain  1 


268  A   WANDERER    IN   PARIS 

No  small  boast,  for  a  weak 
Son  of  mankind,  to  the  earth 
Pinn'd  by  the  thunder,  to  rear 
His  bolt-scathed  front  to  the  stars; 
And,  undaunted,  retort 
'Gainst  thick-crashing,  insane, 
Tyrannous  tempests  of  bale, 
Arrowy  lightnings  of  soul 


Ah !   as  of  old,  from  the  pomp 

Of  Italian  Milan,  the  fair 

Flower  of  marble  of  white 

Southern  palaces  —  steps 

Border'd  by  statues,  and  walks 

Terraced,  and  orange-bowers 

Heavy  with  fragrance  —  the  blond 

German  Kaiser  full  oft 

Long'd  himself  back  to  the  fields, 

Rivers,  and  high-roof'd  towns 

Of  his  native  Germany;    so, 

So,  how  often !   from  hot 

Paris  drawing-rooms,  and  lamps 

Blazing,  and  brilliant  crowds, 

Starr'd  and  jewell'd  of  men 

Famous,  of  women  the  queens 

Of  dazzling  converse  —  from  fumes 

Of  praise,  hot,  heady  fumes,  to  the  poor  brain 

That  mount,  that  madden  —  how  oft 

Heine's  spirit  outworn 

Long'd  itself  out  of  the  din, 

Back  to  the  tranquil,  the  cool 

Far  German  home  of  his  youth ! 

See !   in  the  May-afternoon, 
O'er  the  fresh,  short  turf  of  the  Hartz, 
A  youth,  with  the  foot  of  youth, 
Heine!   thou  climbest  again. 


HEINRICH    HEINE  2G9 

But  something  prompts  me:   Not  thus 
Take  leave  of  Heine  I    not  thus 
Speak,  the  last  word  at  his  gravel 
Not  in  pity,  and  not 
With  half  censure  —  with  awe 
Hail,  as  it  passes  from  earth 
Scattering  lightnings,  that  soul  I 

The  Spirit  of  the  world, 

Beholding  the  absurdity  of  men  — 

Their  vaunts,  their  feats  —  let  a  sardonic  smile, 

For  one  short  moment  wander  o'er  his  lips. 

That  smile  was  Heine  I  —  for  its  earthly  hour 

The  strange  guest  sparkled;    now  'tis  passed  away. 

That  was  Heine!   and  we, 
Myriads  who  live,  who  have  lived, 
What  are  we  all,  but  a  mood, 
A  single  mood,  of  the  life 
Of  the  Spirit  in  whom  we  exist, 
Who  alone  is  all  things  in  one? 
Spirit,  who  fillest  us  all ! 
Spirit,  who  utterest  in  each 
New-coming  son  of  mankind 
Such  of  thy  thoughts  as  thou  wilt! 
O  thou,  one  of  whose  moods, 
Bitter  and  strange,  was  the  life 
Of  Heine  —  his  strange,  alas, 
His  bitter  life  !  —  may  a  life 
Other  and  milder  be  mine! 
May'st  thou  a  mood  more  serene, 
Happier,  have  utter'd  in  mine! 
May'st  thou  the  rapture  of  peace 
Deep  have  embreathed  at  its  core; 
Made*t  a  ray  of  thy  thought, 
Made  it  a  beat  of  thy  joy ! 

Heine  has  many  illustrious  companions.  If  you  would 
stand  by  the  grave  of  Berlioz  and  Ambroise  Thomas,  of 
Offenbach,  who  set  all  Europe  humming,  of  Delibes  the 


270  A   WANDERER  IN   PARIS 

composer  of  Genee's  "  Coppelia,"  of  the  Brothers  de 
Goncourt,  of  Renan,  who  wrote  the  Life  of  Christ,  or  of 
Henri  Murger,  who  discovered  Bohemia,  of  De  Neuville, 
painter  of  battles,  of  Halevy  and  Meilhac  the  play- 
wrights, or  of  Theophile  Gautier  the  poet,  you  must  seek 
the  Cimetiere  du  Nord. 

Montmartre  in  the  evening  centres  in  the  Boulevard  de 
Clichy  —  a  high-spirited  thoroughfare.  Many  foreign- 
ers visit  it  only  then,  and  the  Boulevard  spreads  its  wares 
accordingly,  and  very  tawdry  some  of  them  are.  Here, 
for  example,  is  a  garish  facade  labelled  "  Ciel,"  in  which 
a  number  of  grubby  blackguards  dressed  as  saints  and 
angels  first  bring  refreshments  at  a  franc  a  glass,  and 
then  offer  the  visitor  a  "  preche  humoristique  "  followed 
by  variations  of  Pepper's  ghost  in  what  are  called  "  scenes 
paradisiques,"  the  whole  performance  being  cold,  tawdry 
and  very  stupid.  Next  door  is  "  Enfer,"  where  similar 
delights  are  offered,  save  that  here  the  suggestion  is  not 
of  heaven  but  hell.  Instead  therefore  of  grubby  black- 
guards as  saints  we  have  grubby  blackguards  as  devils. 
On  the  opposite  side  of  the  road  is  the  Cabaret  du  Neant, 
where  you  are  received  with  a  mass  for  the  dead  sung  by 
the  staff,  and  sit  at  tables  made  of  coffins. 

It  is  hardly  necessary  to  say  that  very  few  Parisians 
enter  these  places.  The  singing  cabarets,  however,  are 
different:  they  are  genuine,  and  one  needs  to  be  not 
only  a  Parisian  but  a  very  well-informed  Parisian  to 
appreciate  them,  for  the  songs  are  palpitatingly  topical 
and  political.     The  Quatz'-Arts,  the  Lune-Rousse  and 


THE   OLD    HIPPODROME  271 

the  Chat-Noir  (once  so  famous,  but  now  lacking  in  the 
genius  either  of  Salis,  its  founder,  or  of  Caran  d'Ache, 
Steinlen  or  Willette,  who  helped  to  make  it  renowned) 
are  all  in  the  Boulevard  de  Clichy.  So  also  is  Aristide 
Bruant's  cabaret,  where  an  organised  shout  of  welcome 
awaits  every  visitor,  and  Aristide  —  in  costume  a  cross 
between  a  poet  and  a  cowboy  —  sings  his  realistic  ballads 
of  Parisian  street  life.  Here  also  is  the  Moulin-Rouge, 
which  in  the  old  days  of  the  elephant  was  in  its  spurious 
way  amusing,  but  is  now  rebuilt  and  redecorated  out  of 
knowledge,  and  for  all  the  words  you  hear  might  be  on 
Broadway. 

Here,  also  at  the  extreme  western  end  of  the  Boulevard, 
is  the  Hippodrome,  now  a  hippodrome  only  in  name  and 
given  up  to  the  populous  cinematoscope.  I  regret  the 
loss  of  the  real  Paris  Hippodrome.  Paris  still  has  her 
permanent  circuses,  but  the  Hippodrome  is  gone.  It 
was  there  that,  one  night,  in  1889,  I  chanced  to  sit  very 
near  the  royal  box,  into  which  with  much  bowing  and 
scraping  of  managers,  a  white-haired  old  gentleman  with 
the  features  of  a  lion  and  an  eagle  harmoniously  blended 
was  ushered.  He  was  only  seventy-nine,  this  old  gentle- 
man, and  he  was  in  the  thick  of  such  duties  as  fall  to 
the  Leader  of  the  Opposition  and  promoter  of  Home 
Rule  for  Ireland ;  but  he  followed  every  step  of  the 
performance  like  a  schoolboy,  and  now  and  then  he  sent 
for  an  official  to  have  something  explained  to  him,  such 
as,  on  one  occasion,  the  workings  of  the  artificial  snow- 
storm which  overwhelmed  Skobeleff's  army.     That  ill- 


272  A   WANDERER   IN   PARIS 

fated  Russian  general  was  the  hero  of  the  spectacle, 
a  remarkable  one  in  its  way;  but  to  me  the  restless 
animation  and  whole-hearted  enjoyment  of  Mr.  Glad- 
stone was  the  finer  entertainment. 

Montmartre  has  also  three  dancing  halls,  two  of  which 
are  genuine  and  one  a  show-place.  The  genuine  halls 
are  the  Moulin-de-la-Galette,  high  on  the  hill  on  the 
steepest  part  of  it  above  the  Moulin-Rouge,  and  the 
Elysee  in  the  Boulevard  de  Rochechouart,  which  are 
open  only  two  or  three  times  a  week  and  which  are 
thronged  by  the  shop-assistants  and  young  people  of 
the  neighbourhood.  The  spurious  hall  is  the  Bal  Taba- 
rin,  which  is  open  every  evening  and  is  a  spectacle. 
It  is,  however,  by  no  means  unamusing,  and  I  have  spent 
many  pleasant  idle  hours  there.  Willette's  famous 
fresco  of  the  apotheosis  of  the  Parisian  leg  decorates  a 
wall-space  over  the  bar  with  peculiar  fitness.  At  all  the 
bals  the  men  who  dance  retain  their  hats  and  often 
their  overcoats,  and  for  the  most  part  leave  their  partners 
with  amazing  abruptness  at  the  last  step.  Some  of  the 
measures  are  conspicuous  for  a  lack  of  restraint  that 
would  decimate  an  English  ballroom;  but  one  must  not 
take  such  displays  "at  the  foot  of  the  letter";  they  do 
not  mean  among  these  Latin  romps  and  frolics  what 
they  would  mean  with  us,  whose  emotions  are  less  facile 
and  sense  of  fun  less  physical. 

And  so  we  come  to  midnight,  when  Montmartre 
enters  its  third,  and,  to  a  Londoner  exasperated  by  the 
grandmotherly   legislation   of  his   own   city,    its   most 


THE   NIGHT   CAFES  273 

entertaining  phase.  The  idea  that  Paris  is  a  late  city 
is  an  illusion.  Paris  is  not  a  late  city :  it  is  a  city  with 
a  few  late  streets.  Paris  as  a  whole  goes  to  bed  as  early 
as  London,  if  not  earlier,  as  a  walk  in  the  residential 
quarters  will  prove.  Montmartre  is  late,  and  the  Boule- 
vards des  Capucines  and  des  Italiens  are  late,  although 
less  so;  and  that  is  about  all.  When  it  is  remembered 
that  Paris  rises  and  opens  its  shops  some  hours  earlier 
than  London,  and  that  the  Parisians  value  their  health, 
it  will  be  recognised  that  Paris  could  not  be  a  late  city. 
One  must  remember  also  that  the  number  of  all-night 
cafes  is  very  small,  so  small  that  by  frequenting  them 
with  any  diligence  one  may  soon  come  to  know  by  sight 
most  of  the  late  fringe  of  this  city,  both  amateurs  and 
professionals.  One  is  indeed  quickly  struck  by  their 
numerical  weakness. 

There  is  a  fashion  in  night  cafes  as  in  hats ;  change 
is  made  as  suddenly  and  as  inexplicably.  One  month 
everyone  is  crowding  into,  let  us  say,  the  Chat  Vivant, 
and  the  next  the  Chat  Vivant  kindles  its  lamps  and 
tweaks  its  mandolins  in  vain:  all  the  world  passes  its 
doors  on  the  way  to  the  Nid  de  Nuit.  What  is  the 
reason  ?  No  one  knows  exactly ;  but  we  must  probably 
once  again  seek  the  woman.  A  new  dancer  (or  shall  I  say 
attachee  ?)  has  appeared,  or  an  old  dancer  or  attachee 
transferred  her  allegiance.  And  so  for  a  while  the  Nid 
has  not  a  free  table  after  one  o'clock,  and  on  a  special 
night — such  as  Mi-Car  erne,  or  Reveillon,  or  New  Year's 
Eve — it  is  the  head-waiter  and  the  door-keeper  of  the  Nid 


274  A   WANDERER   IN   PARIS 

into  whose  hands  are  pressed  the  gold  coins  and  bank 
notes  to  influence  them  to  admit  the  bloods  and  their 
parties  and  find  them  a  table  which  a  year  ago  would 
have  gone  to  the  officials  of  the  Chat  Vivant. 

They  remain,  when  all  has  been  said  against  them, 
simple  and  well-mannered  places,  these  half-dozen  fa- 
mous cafes  on  which  the  sun  always  rises.  To  think  so 
one  must  perhaps  graduate  on  the  Boulevards,  but  once 
they  are  accepted  they  can  become  an  agreeable  habit. 
Sleepiness  is  as  unknown  there  as  the  writings  of  Thomas 
a  Kempis.  Not  only  the  dancers  de  la  maison  but  the 
visitors  too  are  tireless.  There  may  be  ways  of  getting 
ennui  into  a  Parisian  girl,  but  certainly  it  is  not  by 
dancing.  Nor  does  the  band  tire  either,  one  excellent 
rule  at  all  of  them  being  that  there  should  be  no  pause 
whatever  between  the  tunes,  from  the  hour  of  opening 
until  day. 

There  lies  before  me  as  I  write  an  amusing  memorial 
of  the  innocent  high  spirits  that  can  prevail  on  such  a 
special  all-night  sitting  as  Reveillon:  one  of  the  tails 
of  a  dress  coat,  lined  with  white  satin  on  which  a  skilful 
hand  has  traced  with  a  fountain  pen  (my  own)  two  very 
intimate  scenes  of  French  life.  These  drawings  were 
made  between  five  and  six  in  the  morning  in  the  intervals 
of  the  dance,  the  artist,  lacking  paper,  having  without 
a  word  taken  a  table  knife  and  shorn  off  his  coat-tails  for 
the  purpose.  His  coat,  I  may  say,  was  already  being 
worn  inside  out,  with  one  of  the  leather  buckles  of  his 
braces  as  a  button-hole.     A  tall  burly  man,  with  a  long 


A   FREAK  275 

red  Boulevard  beard,  he  had  thrown  out  signs  of  friend- 
liness to  me  at  once,  and  we  became  as  brothers.  He 
drew  my  portrait  on  the  table  cloth ;  I  affected  to  draw 
his.  He  showed  me  where  I  was  wrong  and  drew  it 
risrht.  He  then  left  me,  in  order  to  walk  for  a  while  on 
an  imaginary  tight-rope  across  the  floor,  and  having 
safely  made  the  journey  and  turned  again,  with  infinite 
skill  in  his  recoveries  from  falling  and  the  most  dexter- 
ous managing  of  a  balancing-pole  that  did  not  exist,  he 
leaped  lightly  to  earth  again,  kissed  his  hand  to  the  com- 
pany, and  again  sat  by  me  and  resumed  his  work; 
finally,  after  other  diversions,  completing  the  chef  d'eeu  vre 
that  is  now  lying  on  my  desk  and  lending  abandon  to 
what  is  otherwise  a  stronghold  of  British  decorum.  We 
parted  at  seven.  I  have  never  seen  him  since,  but  I  find 
his  name  often  in  the  French  comic  papers  illustrating 
yet  other  phases  of  their  favourite  pleasantry  for  the 
entertainment  of  this  simple  and  tireless  people. 

Another  incident  I  recall  that  is  equally  characteristic 
of  Montmartre.  "(Jla  ne  fait  rien,"  said  a  head-waiter 
when  we  had  expressed  regret  on  hearing  of  the  death 
of  the  maitre  d'hotel,  for  whom  (an  old  acquaintance) 
we  had  been  asking.  "  £a  ne  fait  rien  :"  it  is  necessary 
to  order  supper  just  the  same.  True.  True  indeed 
everywhere,  but  particularly  true  on  Montmartre. 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

THE    ELYSEE    TO    THE    HOTEL    DE    VILLE 

The  Most  Interesting  Streets  —  Pet  Aversions  —  The  Rue  de  la  Paix 

—  The  Vendome  Column —  A  Populous  Church  —  The  Whiff  of 
Grapeshot  —  Alfred  de  Musset  —  The  Moliere  Quarter  —  A  Green 
and  White  Oasis  —  Camille  Desmoulins  at  the  Cafe  de  Foy  — 
Charles  Lamb  in  Paris  — The  Cloitre  de  St.  Honore— The  Mas- 
sacre of  St.  Bartholomew  —  St.  Germain  of  Auxerre  —  A  Satisfied 
Corpse — Catherine  de  Medicis'  Observatory  —  St.  Eustache  —  A 
Wonderful  Organ  —  The  Halles  —  French  Economy  and  English 
Want  of  It  —  The  Goat -herd  —  The  Assassination  of  Henri  IV. — 
The  Tour  St.  Jacques  —  Pascal,  Theologian  and  Inventor  of 
Omnibuses  —  A  Sinister  Spot  —  The  Paris  Town-hall  —  A  Riot  of 
Frescoes  —  Etienne  Marcel  —  The  Hotel  de  Ville  and  Politesse  — 
An  Ancient  Palace  —  Old  Streets — Madame  de  Beauvais'  Mansion 

—  A  Quiet  Courtyard  —  The  Church  of  St.  Paul  and  St.  Louis  — 
Rabelais'  Grave. 

THE  Elysee,  the  official  home  of  the  French  presi- 
dent —  Paris's  White  House  and  Buckingham 
Palace  —  is  situated  in  the  Rue  du  Faubourg  Saint- 
Honore,  which  is  one  of  the  most  entertaining  streets 
in  the  whole  city  in  which  to  loiter ;  that  is,  if  you  like, 
as  I  do,  the  windows  of  curiosity  dealers  and  jewellers 
and  print  shops.  Not  that  bargains  are  to  be  obtained 
here:  far  from  it:  it  is  not  like  the  Rue  Saints-Peres 
or  the  Rue  Mazarine  across  the  river ;  but  merely  as  a 
series  of  windows  it  is  fascinating.     I  like  it  as  much  as  I 

276 


THE   DULL   STREETS  277 

dislike  the  Rue  Lafayette,  which  has  always  been  my 
aversion,  not  only  because  it  is  interminable  and  com- 
mercial and  noisy,  but  because  it  leads  back  to  England 
and  work ;  yet  since,  however,  when  one  arrives  in  Paris 
it  leads  from  England  and  work,  I  must  be  a  little 
lenient,  and  there  is  also  a  cafe  in  it  where  the  diamond- 
merchants  compare  gems  quite  openly. 

Remembering  these  extenuating  circumstances  I  un- 
hesitatingly award  the  palm  for  undesirability  in  a  Paris 
street  to  the  Rue  du  Quatre-Septembre  and  the  Rue 
Reaumur,  which  are  sheer  Shaftesbury  Avenue,  and,  as 
in  Shaftesbury  Avenue,  cause  one  to  regret  the  older 
streets  and  houses  whose  place  they  have  usurped.  The 
Rue  de  Rivoli  I  dislike  too :  that  strange  mixture  of  very 
good  hotels  (the  Meurice,  for  instance,  is  here)  and  rub- 
bishy shops  full  of  tawdry  jewellery  to  catch  the  excur- 
sionist. How  it  happened  that  such  a  site  should  have 
been  allowed  to  fall  into  such  hands  is  a  mystery.  An 
additional  objection  to  the  Rue  de  Rivoli  is  that  the  one 
English  acquaintance  whom  one  least  wishes  to  meet  is 
always  there. 

The  Rue  du  Faubourg  Saint-Honore  becomes  the 
Rue  Saint-Honore  at  the  Rue  Royale.  The  Rue  Saint- 
Honore  is  also  a  good  street  for  shop  windows,  but  not 
the  equal  of  its  more  aristocratic  half;  just  as  that  is 
surpassed  here  by  the  Rue  de  la  Paix,  to  which  we  now 
come  on  the  left,  and  which  contains  more  things  that  I 
can  do  without,  made  to  perfection,  than  any  street  I 
ever  saw.     At  its  foot  is  the  Place  Vendome,  with  the 


278  A   WANDERER   IN   PARIS 

beautiful  column  in  the  midst  on  which  Napoleon's 
campaign  of  1805  is  illustrated  in  a  bronze  spiral  that 
constitutes  at  once,  I  suppose,  the  most  durable  and 
the  longest  picture  in  the  world.  The  bronze  came  very 
properly  from  the  melted  Russian  and  Austrian  cannons. 
Napoleon  stands  at  the  top,  imperially  splendid;  but 
as  we  saw  in  the  chapter  on  the  "  He  de  la  Cite,"  it  was 
not  always  so :  for  his  first  statue  was  removed  by  Louis 
XVIII.  to  be  used  for  the  new  Henri  IV.  In  its  stead 
a  fleur-de-lys  surmounted  the  column.  Then  came 
Louis-Philippe,  who  erected  a  new  statue  of  the  Em- 
peror, not,  however,  imperially  clad ;  and  then  Napoleon 
III.,  who  substituted  the  present  figure.  But  in  1870 
the  Communards  succeeded  in  bringing  the  column 
down,  and  it  has  only  been  vertical  again  since  1875. 
Thus  it  is  to  be  a  Paris  monument ! 

Returning  to  the  Rue  Saint-Honore,  in  which,  by  the 
way,  are  several  old  and  interesting  houses,  such  as 
No.  271,  the  Cabaret  du  Saint-Esprit,  a  great  resort  in 
the  Reign  of  Terror  of  spectators  wishing  to  see  the 
tumbrils  pass,  and  No.  398,  where  Robespierre  lodged, 
we  come  to  St.  Roch's  church,  on  the  left,  interesting 
both  in  itself  and  in  history.  It  has  been  called  the 
noisiest  church  in  Paris,  and  certainly  it  is  difficult  to 
find  a  time  when  feet  are  silent  there.  The  attraction  is 
St.  Roch's  wealth  of  shrines,  of  a  rather  theatrical  char- 
acter, such  as  the  wise  poor  love :  an  entombment,  a 
calvary  and  a  nativity,  all  very  effective  if  not  beautiful. 
Beauty  does  not  matter,  for  on  Good  Friday  the  en- 


THE   MOMENT  AND   THE   MAN        279 

tombment  holds  thousands  silent  before  it.  The 
church,  which  is  in  the  baroque  style  that  it  is  so  easy  to 
dislike,  is  too  florid  throughout.  Among  the  many 
monuments  are  memorials  of  Corneille  and  Diderot, 
both  of  whom  are  buried  here.  The  music  of  St.  Roch 
is,  I  am  told,  second  only  to  that  of  the  Madeleine. 

So  much  for  St.  Roch  within.  Historically  it 
chances  to  be  of  immense  importance,  for  it  was  here, 
and  in  the  streets  around  and  about  the  church,  that 
the  whiff  of  grapeshot  blew  which  dispersed  the  French 
Revolution  into  the  air.  That  was  on  October  5th, 
1793,  and  it  was  not  only  the  death  of  the  Revolution  but 
it  was  the  birth  of  the  conquering  Buonaparte.  Carlyle 
is  superb :  "  Some  call  for  Barras  to  be  made  Command- 
ant ;  he  conquered  in  Thermidor.  Some,  what  is  more 
to  the  purpose,  bethink  them  of  the  Citizen  Buonaparte, 
unemployed  Artillery-Officer,  who  took  Toulon.  A 
man  of  head,  a  man  of  action :  Barras  is  named  Com- 
mandant's-Cloak ;  this  young  Artillery-Officer  is  named 
Commandant.  He  was  in  the  Gallery  at  the  moment, 
and  heard  it ;  he  withdrew,  some  half -hour,  to  consider 
with  himself :  after  a  half -hour  of  grim  compressed  con- 
sidering, to  be  or  not  to  be,  he  answers  Yea. 

"And  now,  a  man  of  head  being  at  the  centre  of  it, 
the  whole  matter  gets  vital.  Swift,  to  Camp  of  Sab- 
Ions  ;  to  secure  the  Artillery,  there  are  not  twenty  men 
guarding  it !  A  swift  Adjutant,  Murat  is  the  name  of 
him,  gallops;  gets  thither  some  minutes  within  time, 
for  Lepelletier  was  also  on  march  that  way :  the  Cannon 


280  A   WANDERER  IN  PARIS 

are  ours.  And  now  beset  this  post,  and  beset  that; 
rapid  and  firm :  at  Wicket  of  the  Louvre,  in  Cul-de-sac 
Dauphin,  in  Rue  Saint-Honore,  from  Pont-Neuf  all 
along  the  north  Quays,  southward  to  Pont  ci-devant 
Royal,  —  rank  round  the  Sanctuary  of  the  Tuileries,  a 
ring  of  steel  discipline ;  let  every  gunner  have  his  match 
burning,  and  all  men  stand  to  their  arms ! 

"  Lepellctier  has  seized  the  Church  of  Saint-Roch ;  has 
seized  the  Pont-Neuf,  our  piquet  there  retreating  with- 
out fire.  Stray  shots  fall  from  Lepelletier ;  rattle  down 
on  the  very  Tuileries  Staircase.  On  the  other  hand, 
women  advance,  dishevelled,  shrieking,  Peace ;  Lepel- 
letier behind  them  waving  his  hat  in  sign  that  we  shall 
fraternise.  Steady  !  The  Artillery-Officer  is  steady  as 
bronze;  can,  if  need  were,  be  quick  as  lightning.  He 
sends  eight-hundred  muskets  with  ball-cartridges  to  the 
Convention  itself;  honourable  Members  shall  act  with 
these  in  case  of  extremity:  whereat  they  look  grave 
enough.  Four  of  the  afternoon  is  struck.  Lepelletier, 
making  nothing  by  messengers,  by  fraternity  or  hat- 
waving,  bursts  out,  along  the  Southern  Quai  Voltaire, 
along  streets  and  passages,  treble-quick,  in  huge  verit- 
able onslaught !  Whereupon,  thou  bronze  Artillery- 
Officer  —  ?  '  Fire  !'  say  the  bronze  lips.  And  roar  and 
thunder,  roar  and  again  roar,,  continual,  volcano-like, 
goes  his  great  gun,  in  the  Cul-de-sac  Dauphin  against 
the  Church  of  Saint-Roch;  go  his  great  guns  on  the 
Pont-Royal ;  go  all  his  great  guns ;  —  blow  to  air  some 
two-hundred  men,  mainly  about  the  Church  of  Saint- 


I      o 


m 


THE   WHIFF   OF   GRAPESHOT         281 

Roch  !  Lepelletier  cannot  stand  such  horse-play ;  no 
Sectioner  can  stand  it ;  the  Forty-thousand  yield  on  all 
sides,  scour  towards  covert.  'Some  hundred  or  so  of 
them  gathered  about  the  Theatre  de  la  Republique; 
but,'  says  he,  'a  few  shells  dislodged  them.  It  was  all 
finished  at  six.' 

"The  Ship  is  over  the  bar,  then;  free  she  bounds 
shoreward, — amid  shouting  and  vivats  !  CitoyenBuona- 
parte  is '  named  General  of  the  Interior,  by  acclamation ' ; 
quelled  Sections  have  to  disarm  in  such  humour  as  they 
may ;  sacred  right  of  Insurrection  is  gone  forever ! 
The  Sieyes  Constitution  can  disembark  itself,  and  begin 
marching.  The  miraculous  Convention  Ship  has  got 
to  land ; — and  is  there,  shall  we  figuratively  say,  changed, 
as  Epic  Ships  are  wont,  into  a  kind  of  Sea  Nymph, 
never  to  sail  more ;  to  roam  the  waste  Azure,  a  Miracle 
in  History ! 

"It  is  false,'  says  Napoleon,  ' that  we  fired  first  with 
blank  charge;  it  had  been  a  waste  of  life  to  do  that.* 
Most  false:  the  firing  was  with  sharp  and  sharpest 
shot:  to  all  men  it  was  plain  that  here  was  no  sport; 
the  rabbets  and  plinths  of  Saint-Roch  Church  show 
splintered  by  it  to  this  hour.  —  Singular :  in  old  Broglie's 
time,  six  years  ago,  this  Whiff  of  Grapeshot  was  pro- 
mised ;  but  it  could  not  be  given  then ;  could  not  have 
profited  then.  Now,  however,  the  time  is  come  for  it, 
and  the  man;  and  behold,  you  have  it;  and  the  thing 
we  specifically  call  French  Revolution  is  blown  into 
space  by  it,  and  become  a  thing  that  was  !  —  " 


282  A   WANDERER    IN    PARIS 

Crossing  the  Place  du  Theatre-Fran cais  we  come  to 
that  historic  home  of  the  best  French  drama,  where 
Moliere  is  still  played  frequently  and  one  has  some  re- 
spite from  the  theme  of  facile  promiscuity  which  domin- 
ates most  of  the  other  theatres  of  Paris.  A  new  statue 
cf  Alfred  de  Musset  has  lately  been  set  up  under  the 
Corned ie  Francaise.  I  copy  from  a  writer  very  unlike 
him  a  passage  of  criticism  to  remember  as  one  stands 
by  this  monument:  "Give  a  look,  if  you  can,  at  a 
Memoir  of  Alfred  de  Musset  written  by  his  Brother. 
Making  allowance  for  French  morals,  and  Absinthe 
(which  latter  is  not  mentioned  in  the  Book),  Alfred 
appears  to  me  a  fine  Fellow,  very  un-French  in  some 
respects.     He  did  not  at  all  relish  the  new  Romantic 

School,  beginning  with  V.  Hugo,  and  now  alive  in 

and  Co.  —  (what  I  call  the  Gargoyle  School  of  Art, 
whether  in  Poetry,  Painting,  or  Music)  —  he  detested 
the  modern  'feuilleton'  Novel,  and  read  Clarissa!  .  .  . 
Many  years  before  A.  de  M.  died  he  had  a  bad,  long 
illness,  and  was  attended  by  a  Sister  of  Charity.  When 
she  left  she  gave  him  a  Pen  with  'Prenez  a,  vos  pro- 
messes'  worked  about  in  coloured  silks  :  as  also  a  little 
worsted  'Amphore'  she  had  knitted  at  his  bedside. 
When  he  came  to  die,  some  seventeen  years  after,  he 
had  these  two  little  things  put  with  him  in  his  Coffin." 
THat,  by  Edward  FitzGerald,  no  natural  friend  to  the 
de  Mussets  of  the  world,  is  very  pretty. 

The  Rue  de  Richelieu  runs  up  beside  the  Comedie 
Francaise.     We  have  already  been  in  this  street  to  see 


THE   MOLIERE   DISTRICT  283 

the  Bibliotheque  Nationale,  entering  it  from  the  Boule- 
vard, but  let  us  now  walk  up  it,  first  to  see  the  Moliere 
monument,  so  appropriate  just  here,  and  also  to  glance 
at  No.  50,  a  house  still  unchanged,  where  once  lived  an 
insignificant  couple  named  Poisson,  whose  daughter  Jean 
Antoinette  Poisson  lived  to  become  famous  as  Madame 
La  Pompadour.  In  souvenirs  of  Moliere  Paris  is  still 
rich.  We  are  coming  soon  to  No.  92  Rue  Saint-Honore, 
where  he  was  born ;  we  are  coming  to  he  church  of  St. 
Eustache,  where  he  was  christened  on  January  15th, 
1622,  and  where  his  second  son  was  christened  too.  We 
are  coming  also  to  the  church  of  St.  Germain  l'Auxerrois, 
where  he  was  married  and  where  his  first  son  was  bap- 
tised. In  St.  Roch  he  once  stood  as  a  godfather ;  and 
close  to  us  now,  at  the  corner  of  the  Rue  Saint-Honore 
and  the  Rue  Valois,  was  one  of  his  theatres.  And  he 
died  close  to  his  monument,  at  No.  40  Rue  de  Richelieu. 
This  then  is  the  Moliere  quarter. 

We  now  enter  the  Palais  Royal,  that  strange  white 
and  green  oasis  into  which  it  is  so  simple  never  to  stray. 
When  I  first  knew  Paris  the  Palais  Royal  was  filled  with 
cheap  restaurants  and  shops  to  allure  the  excursionist 
and  the  connoisseur  of  those  books  which  an  inspired 
catalogue  once  described  as  very  curious  and  disgusting. 
It  is  now  practically  deserted;  the  restaurants  have 
gone  and  few  shops  remain;  but  in  the  summer  the 
band  plays  to  happy  crowds  and  children  frolic  here  all 
day.  I  have,  however,  never  succeeded  in  shaking  off 
a  feeling  of  depression. 


284  A   WANDERER   IN   PARIS 

The  original  palace  was  built  by  Richelieu  and  was 
then  the  Palais  Cardinal.  After  his  death  it  became 
the  Palais  Royal  and  was  enlarged,  and  was  the  scene 
of  notorious  orgies.  Camille  Desmoulins  made  it  more 
serious,  for  it  was  here  that  he  enflamed  the  people  by 
his  words  on  July  12th,  1789,  and  started  them  on  their 
destroying  career.  That  was  in  the  Cafe  de  Foy.  Car- 
lyle  thus  describes  the  scene:  "But  see  Camille  Des- 
moulins, from  the  Cafe  de  Foy,  rushing  out,  sibylline  in 
face ;  his  hair  streaming,  in  each  hand  a  pistol !  He 
springs  to  a  table:  the  Police  satellites  are  eyeing  him; 
alive  they  shall  not  take  him,  not  they  alive  him  alive. 
This  time  he  speaks  without  stammering :  —  Friends  ! 
shall  we  die  like  hunted  hares  ?  Like  sheep  hounded 
into  their  pinfold ;  bleating  for  mercy,  where  is  no  mercy, 
but  only  a  whetted  knife  ?  The  hour  is  come ;  the  su- 
preme hour  of  Frenchman  and  Man ;  when  Oppressors 
are  to  try  conclusions  with  Oppressed ;  and  the  word  is, 
swift  Death,  or  Deliverance  forever.  Let  such  hour  be 
well-come !  Us,  meseems,  one  cry  only  befits :  To 
Arms  !  Let  universal  Paris,  universal  France,  as  with 
the  throat  of  the  whirlwind,  sound  only :  To  arms  —  To 
arms  !  yell  responsive  the  innumerable  voices;  like  one 
great  voice,  as  of  a  Demon  yelling  from  the  air :  for  all 
faces  wax  fire-eyed,  all  hearts  burn  up  into  madness. 
In  such,  or  fitter  words,  does  Camille  evoke  the  Elemen- 
tal Powers,  in  this  great  moment.  —  Friends,  continues 
Camille,  some  rally ing-sign  !  Cockades;  green  ones; 
—  the  colour  of  Hope !  —  As  with  the  flight  of  locusts, 


ELIA   IN  PARIS  285 

these  green  tree-leaves;  green  ribands  from  the  neigh- 
bouring shops ;  all  green  things  are  snatched,  and  made 
cockades  of.  Camille  descends  from  his  table,  'stifled 
with  embraces,  wetted  with  tears';  has  a  bit  of  green 
riband  handed  him;  sticks  it  in  his  hat.  And  now  to 
Curtius'  Image-shop  there;  to  the  Boulevards;  to  the 
four  winds;  and  rest  not  till  France  be  on  fire  !" 

Desmoulins  in  bronze  now  stands  in  the  garden,  near 
this  spot.  It  is  an  interesting  statue  by  Boverie,  who 
showed  great  courage  in  his  use  of  a  common  chair, 
dignified  here  into  a  worthy  adjunct  of  liberation. 

Under  Napoleon  the  Tribunate  sat  in  the  Palais  Royal, 
and  after  Napoleon  the  Orleans  family  made  it  their 
home.  The  Communards,  always  thorough,  burned  a 
good  deal  of  it  in  1871,  and  it  is  now  a  desert  and  the 
seat  of  the  Conseil  d'Etat.  Let  us  leave  it  by  the  gate- 
way leading  to  the  Rue  de  Valois  and  be  happier  again. 

The  Rue  de  Valois  is  an  interesting  and  picturesque 
street,  but  its  greatest  attraction  to  me  is  its  association 
with  Charles  Lamb.  His  hotel  —  the  Europe,  just  op- 
posite the  gateway  —  has  recently  been  rebuilt  and  is 
now  called  the  Grand  Hotel  du  Palais  Royal  et  de  l'Eu- 
rope,  and  the  polished  staircase  on  which  his  infinitesi- 
mal legs  slipped  about  so  comically  on  his  late  and  not 
too  steady  returnings  (and  how  could  he  be  steady  when 
Providence  ordained  that  the  waiter  of  whom  in  his  best 
stammering  French  he  ordered  an  egg  on  his  first  visit  to 
a  restaurant,  should  have  so  misunderstood  the  order  as 
to  bring  in  its  place  a  glass  of  eau  de  vie,  an  error,  we  are 


A  WANDERER  IN   PARIS 

told,  which  gave  Lamb  much  pleasure  ?)  the  polished 
staircase  has  now  gone;  but  the  hotel  stands  exactly 
where  it  did,  and  everything  else  is  the  same — the 
Bceuf  a  la  Mode  is  still  close  by  and  still  one  of  the  best 
restaurants  in  Paris,  and  the  Place  de  Valois  is  un- 
touched, with  its  most  attractive  archway  leading  to  the 
Rue  des  Bons-Enfants  and  giving  on  to  the  vista  of  the 
Rue  Montesquieu,  with  its  hundred  signs  hanging  out 
exactly  as  in  1823. 

We  now  return  to  the  Rue  Saint-Honore.  The  three 
old  houses,  180,  182,  and  184,  opposite  the  Magazins 
du  Louvre,  belonged  before  the  Revolution  to  the 
Canons  of  Saint-Honore.  The  courtyard  here  —  the 
Cloitre  du  Saint-Honore  —  is  one  of  the  most  character- 
istic examples  of  dirty  Paris  that  remain,  but  very  pic- 
turesque too.  To  peep  in  here  is  almost  certainly  to  be 
rewarded  by  some  Hogarthian  touch,  and  to  walk  up  the 
Rue  des  Bons-Enfants  yields  similar  experiences  and 
some  very  pleasant  glimpses  of  old  Paris. 

Still  going  east  we  turn  down  past  the  Oratoire  on 
the  right,  with  Coligny's  monument  on  its  south  side, 
into  the  Rue  de  Rivoli,  and  across  the  Rue  du  Louvre 
obliquely  to  the  old  church  we  see  there,  opposite  the 
east  end  of  the  Louvre  and  Napoleon's  iron  gates. 
This  church  is  that  of  St.  Germain  l'Auxerrois,  not  to 
be  confounded  with  the  St.  Germain  of  St.  Germain  des 
Pres  across  the  river.  St.  Germain  l'Auxerrois  is  histori- 
cally one  of  the  most  interesting  of  the  Paris  churches, 
for  it  was  St.  Germain's  bell  that  gave  the  signal  for 


L'AMATEUR  D'ESTAMPES 

DAUMIER 

{Palais  des  Beaux  Arts) 


X 


ST.    GERMAIN  287 

the  massacre  of  St.  Bartholomew  in  1572,  Charles  IX. 
is  said  to  have  fired  at  the  Huguenots  (doubtless  with 
Catherine  de  Medicis  at  his  shoulder,  anxious  for  the 
success  of  his  aim)  from  one  of  the  windows  in  the 
Louvre  overlooking  this  space. 

St.  Germain  of  Auxerre  began  as  a  layman  —  the  ruler 
of  Burgundy.  Divine  revelation,  however,  indicated 
that  the  Church  was  his  true  calling,  and  he  therefore 
succeeded  Saint  Amadour as  Bishop, "gave,"  inCaxton's 
words,  "all  his  riches  to  poor  people,  and  changed  his 
wife  into  his  sister."  He  took  to  the  new  life  very 
thoroughly.  He  fasted  every  day  till  evening  and  then 
ate  coarse  bread  and  drank  water  and  used  no  pottage 
and  no  salt.  "  In  winter  ne  summer  he  had  but  one 
clothing,  and  that  was  the  hair  next  his  body,  a  coat, 
and  a  gown,  and  if  it  happed  so  that  he  gave  not  his 
vesture  to  some  poor  body,  he  would  wear  it  till  it  were 
broken  and  torn.  His  bed  was  environed  with  ashes, 
hair,  and  sackcloth,  and  his  head  lay  no  higher  than  his 
shoulders,  but  all  day  wept,  and  bare  about  his  neck 
divers  relics  of  saints.  He  ware  none  other  clothing, 
and  he  went  oft  barefoot  and  seldom  ware  any  girdle. 
The  life  that  he  led  was  above  man's  power.  His  life 
was  so  straight  and  hard  that  it  was  marvel  and  pity 
to  see  his  flesh,  and  was  like  a  thing  not  credible,  and 
he  did  so  many  miracles  that,  if  his  merits  had  not  gone 
before,  they  should  have  been  trowed  phantasms." 

St.  Germain's  miracles  were  more  interesting  than 
those  of,  say,  his  convert  St.  Genevieve.     He  conjured 


288  A   WANDERER   IN   PARIS 

devils ;  he  forbade  fire  to  burn  him ;  having  fed  his 
companions  on  the  only  calf  of  a  friendly  cow-herd,  he 
put  the  bones  and  the  skins  together  and  life  returned 
to  it;  he  also  raised  one  of  his  own  disciples  from  the 
dead  and  conversed  with  him  through  the  walls  of  his 
tomb,  but  on  the  disciple  saying  that  in  his  late  con- 
dition "he  was  well  and  all  things  were  to  him  soft  and 
sweet,"  he  permitted  him  to  remain  dead.  He  also 
found  his  miraculous  gifts  very  useful  in  the  war;  but 
his  principal  interest  to  us  is  that  he  is  supposed  to 
have  visited  England  and  organised  the  Establishment 
here.  St.  Germain's  church  has  a  little  old  glass  that 
is  charming  and  much  bad  new.  The  south  transept 
window,  although  sheer  kaleidoscope,  is  gay  and  at- 
tractive. 

At  the  back  of  the  church  runs  the  narrow  and  medie- 
val Rue  de  l'Arbre-Sec,  extending  to  the  Rue  Saint- 
Honore.  At  No.  4  is,  or  was,  the  Hotel  des  Mousq  le- 
taires,  where,  when  it  was  the  Belle  Etoile,  d'Artagnan 
drank  and  swaggered.  Let  us  take  this  street  and  come 
to  St.  Eustache  by  way  of  another  and  less  terrible 
souvenir  of  Catherine  de  Medicis.  The  Rue  de  l'Arbre- 
Sec  leads  to  the  Rue  Sauval  and  to  the  circular  Rue  de 
Viarmes  surrounding  the  Bourse  de  Commerce.  Here 
we  see  a  remarkable  Doric  column,  all  that  remains  of 
the  palace  which  Catherine  built  in  order  to  avoid  the 
fate  predicted  for  her  by  a  soothsayer  —  that  she  would 
perish  in  the  ruins  of  a  house  near  St.  Germain's.  The 
Tuileries,  which  she  was  then  building,  being  far  too  near 


THE   CHURCH   OF   ST.   EUSTACHE      289 

St.  Germain's  to  be  comfortable  after  such  a  remark,  she 
erected  the  Hotel  de  la  Reine,  the  tower  being  designed 
for  astrological  study  in  the  company  of  her  Italian 
familiar,  Ruggieri.  All  else  has  gone:  the  tower  and 
the  stars  remain. 

A  few  steps  down  the  Rue  Oblin  and  we  are  at  St. 
Eustache,  which  has  to  my  eyes  the  most  fascinating 
roof  of  any  church  in  Paris  and  a  very  attractive 
nave.  The  interior,  however,  is  marred  by  the  presence 
of  what  might  be  called  a  church  within  a  church,  de- 
stroying all  vistas,  and  it  is  only  with  great  difficulty 
that  one  can  see  the  exquisite  rose  window  over  the 
organ.  It  is  a  church  much  used  by  the  poor  —  who 
even  call  it  Notre  Dame  des  Halles  —  but  its  music  on 
festival  days  brings  the  rich  too.  Like  most  other 
Paris  churches  of  any  importance,  St.  Eustache  had  its 
secular  period.  The  Feast  of  Reason  was  held  here  in 
1793;  in  1795  it  was  the  Temple  of  Agriculture.  In 
1791  Mirabeau,  the  first  of  the  illustrious,  as  we  saw,  to 
be  buried  in  the  Pantheon,  was  carried  here  in  his  coffin 
for  a  funeral  service,  at  which  guns  were  fired  that 
brought  down  some  of  the  plaster.  Voiture  the  poet 
was  buried  here.  The  church  has  always  been  famous  for 
the  splendour  of  its  festivals  and  for  its  music,  its  present 
organ,  once  much  injured  by  Communard  bombs,  being- 
one  of  the  finest  in  the  world.  No  reader  of  this  book 
who  cares  for  solemn  music  should  fail  to  ascertain  the 
St.  Eustache  festivals.  On  St.  Cecilia's  day  (March  22nd) 
entrance  is  very  difficult,  but  an  effort  should  be  made. 


290  A   WANDERER   IN   PARIS 

Eustache,  or  Eustace,  the  Saint,  had  no  direct  associa- 
tion with  Paris,  as  had  our  friends  St.  Germain  and  St. 
Genevieve  and  St.  Denis  and  St.  Martin  and  St.  Merry ; 
but  he  had  an  indirect  one,  having  been  a  Roman 
soldier  under  the  Emperor  Trajan,  whose  column  was 
the  model  for  the  Vendome  column.  In  the  Sacristy, 
however,  are  preserved  some  of  the  bones  not  only  of 
himself  but  of  his  wife  and  family,  brought  hither  from 
St.  Denis.  One  of  his  teeth  is  here  too,  and  one  special 
bone,  the  gift  of  Pope  Alexander  VII.  to  an  influential 
Catholic. 

Why  our  London  markets  should  be  so  dull  and  un- 
attractive and  the  Halles  so  entertaining  is  a  problem 
which  would  perhaps  require  an  ethnological  essay  of 
many  pages  to  elucidate.  But  so  it  is.  Smithfield, 
Billingsgate,  Leadenhall,  Covent  Garden  —  one  has 
little  temptation  or  encouragement  to  loiter  in  any  of 
them ;  but  the  Halles  spread  welcoming  arms.  I  have 
spent  hours  there,  and  would  spend  more.  In  the  very 
early  morning  it  is  not  too  agreeable  a  neighbourhood  for 
the  idle  spectator,  nor  is  he  desired,  although  if  he  is 
prepared  to  endure  a  little  rough  usage  with  tongue 
and  elbow  he  will  be  vastly  amused  by  what  he  sees; 
but  later,  when  all  the  world  is  up,  the  Halles  entreat 
his  company.  Their  phases  are  three:  the  first  is  the 
arrival  of  the  market  carts  with  their  merchandise,  very 
much  as  in  our  own  Covent  Garden,  but  multiplied 
many  times  and  infinitely  more  vocal  and  shattering  to 
the  nerves.     (I  once  occupied  a  bedroom  within  range 


FRENCH   ECONOMY  291 

of  this  pandemonium.)  The  second  phase,  a  few  hours 
later,  sees  the  descent  upon  the  market  of  the  large 
caterers  —  buyers  for  the  restaurants,  great  and  small, 
the  hotels  and  pensions.  That  is  between  half-past  five 
and  half-past  seven.  And  then  come  the  small  buyers, 
the  neat  servants,  the  stout  housewives,  all  with  their 
baskets  or  string  bags.  This  is  our  time ;  we  may  now 
loiter  at  our  ease  secure  from  the  swift  and  scorching 
sarcasms  of  the  crowded  dawn. 

The  Halles  furnish  another  proof  of  the  quiet 
efficiency  of  Frenchwomen.  At  every  fruit  and  vege- 
table stall  —  and  to  me  they  are  the  most  interesting  of 
all  —  sits  one  or  more  of  these  watchful  creatures,  cheer- 
ful, capable  and  always  busy  either  with  the  affairs  of 
the  stall  or  with  knitting  or  sewing.  The  Halles  afford 
also  very  practical  proof  of  the  place  that  economy  is 
permitted  to  hold  in  the  French  cuisine ;  as  much  being 
done  for  the  small  purse  as  for  the  large  one. 

In  England  we  are  ashamed  of  economy ;  by  avoiding 
it  we  hope  to  give  the  impression  that  we  are  not  mean. 
The  wise  French  either  care  less  for  their  neighbour's 
opinions  or  have  agreed  together  to  dispense  with  such 
insincerities;  and  the  result  is  that  if  a  pennyworth  of 
carrots  is  all  that  your  soup  requires  you  need  not  buy 
two  pennyworth,  and  so  forth.  Little  portions  of  vege- 
tables for  one,  two  or  more  persons,  all  ready  for  the  pot, 
can  be  bought,  involving  no  waste  whatever,  and  with 
no  faltering  or  excuse  on  the  part  of  the  purchaser  to 
explain  so  small  an  order.     In  France  a  customer  is  a 


292  A   WANDERER   IN  PARIS 

customer.  There  are  no  distinctions;  although  I  do 
not  deny  that  in  the  West  End  of  Paris,  where  the 
Americans  and  English  spend  their  money,  subtle  shades 
of  courtesy  (or  want  of  it)  have  crept  in.  I  have  been 
treated  like  a  prince  in  a  small  comestible  shop  where  I 
wanted  only  a  pennyworth  of  butter,  a  pennyworth  of 
cheese  and  a  pennyworth  of  milk.  It  is  pennies  that 
make  the  French  rich;  no  one  can  be  in  any  doubt  of 
that  who  has  taken  notice  of  the  thousands  of  small 
shops  not  only  in  Paris  but  in  the  provinces. 

Anyone  making  an  early  morning  visit  to  the  Halles 
should  complete  it  by  seeing  my  goat-herd,  who  leads 
his  flocks  thereabouts  and  eastward.  He  is  the  prettiest 
sight  I  ever  saw  in  Paris.  There  are  several  goat-herds 
—  even  Passy  knows  them  —  but  my  goat-herd  is  here. 
By  eight  o'clock  he  has  done;  his  flock  is  dry.  He 
wears  a  blue  cloth  tam-o'-shanter  (if  there  can  be  such 
a  thing :  it  is  really  the  cap  of  the  romantic  mountaineer 
of  comic  opera)  and  he  saunters  carelessly  along,  piping 
melancholy  notes  on  a  shepherd's  pipe  —  not  unlike  the 
lovely  wailing  that  desolates  the  soul  in  the  last  act  of 
Tristan  und  Isolde,  When  a  customer  arrives  he  calls 
one  of  his  goats,  sits  down  on  the  nearest  doorstep  —  it 
may  be  a  seventeenth-century  palace  —  and  milks  a  cup- 
ful ;  and  then  he  is  off  again,  with  his  scrannel  to  his 
lips,  the  very  type  of  the  urban  Strephon. 

We  may  leave  les  Halles  (pronounced  lay  al,  and  not, 
as  one  would  think,  lays  all :  one  of  the  pitfalls  for  the 
English  in  Paris)  by  the  Rue  Berger,  and  enter  the 


PASCAL  293 

Square  des  Innocents  to  look  at  its  decorative  fountain. 
The  next  street  below  the  Rue  des  Innocents  is  the 
Rue  de  la  Ferronnerie,  where,  on  May  14th,  1610, 
Henri  IV.  was  assassinated  by  Ravaillac  before  the  door 
of  No.  3.  And  so  by  the  Rue  St.  Denis,  which  one  is 
always  glad  to  enter  again,  and  the  Rue  de  Rivoli,  we 
come  to  Saint-Jacques,  that  grey  aged  isolated  tower 
which  we  have  seen  so  often  from  the  heights  and  in 
the  distance.  It  is  a  beautiful  Gothic  building,  at  the 
summit  of  which  is  the  figure  of  St.  James,  with  his 
emblems,  the  originals  of  which  are  at  the  Cluny.  The 
tower  belonged  to  the  church  of  St.  Jacques-la-Bou- 
cherie,  but  that  being  in  the  way  when  Napoleon 
planned  the  Rue  de  Rivoli,  it  had  to  go. 

The  tower  has  not  lately  been  open  to  the  climbers, 
and  I  have  never  seen  Paris  from  St.  James's  side,  but  I 
hope  to.  Blaise  Pascal  experimented  here  in  the  den- 
sity of  air ;  hence  the  presence  of  his  statue  below.  It 
was  also  to  Pascal,  of  whom  we  now  think  only  as  an 
ironist  and  wistful  theologian,  that  Paris  owes  her 
omnibuses,  for  it  was  he  that  devised  the  first,  which 
began  to  run  on  March  18th,  1662,  from  the  Luxem- 
bourg to  the  Bastille.  Pascal  owed  his  conversion  to 
his  escape  from  a  carriage  accident  on  the  Pont  Neuf. 
His  grave  we  saw  at  St.  Etienne-du-Mont. 

In  crossing  the  Place  de  l'Hotel  de  Ville  one  must  not 
forget  that  this  was  once  the  terrible  Place  de  Greve, 
the  site  of  public  executions  for  five  centuries.  Here 
we  meet  Catherine  de  Medicis  again,  for  it  was  by  her 


294  A   WANDERER   IN   PARIS 

order  that  after  the  Massacre  of  St.  Bartholomew  the 
Huguenots  Briquemont  and  Cavagnes  were  hanged  here, 
and  here  also  was  executed  Captain  Montgomery,  whom 
we  are  to  meet  in  the  next  chapter.  The  foster-sister 
of  Marie  de  Medicis  was  burned  alive  in  the  Place  de 
Greve  as  a  sorcerer ;  and  Ravaillac,  after  assassinating 
Henri  IV.,  here  met  his  end.  Among  later  victims  was 
the  famous  Cartouche,  of  whom  Thackeray  wrote  so 
entertainingly. 

The  Hotel  de  Ville  is  not  a  building  that  I  for  one 
should  choose  to  revisit,  nor  do  I  indeed  advise  others 
to  bother  about  it  at  all ;  but  externally  at  any  rate  it  is 
fine,  with  its  golden  sentinels  on  high.  Its  chief  merit 
is  bulk;  but  there  is  a  certain  interest  in  observing  a 
Republican  palace  of  our  own  time,  if  only  to  see  how 
near  it  can  come  to  the  real  thing.  A  saturnine  guide 
displays  a  series  of  spacious  apartments,  the  principal 
attraction  of  which  is  their  mural  painting.  All  the  best 
French  Royal  Academicians  (so  to  speak)  of  twenty 
years  ago  had  a  finger  in  this  pie,  and  their  fantasies 
sprawl  over  ceilings  and  walls.  With  the  exception  of 
one  room  the  history  of  Paris  is  practically  ignored, 
allegory  being  the  master  vogue.  Poetry,  Song,  Inspira- 
tion, Fame,  Ambition,  Despair  —  all  these  undraped 
ladies  may  be  seen,  and  many  others.  Also  Electricity 
and  Steam,  Science  and  Art,  distinguishable  from  their 
sisters  only  by  the  happy  chance  that  although  they 
forgot  their  clothes  they  did  not  forget  their  symbols. 

One  beautiful  thing  only  did  I  see,  and  that  was  a 


CIVIC    POLITESSE  295 

large  design,  perhaps  the  largest  there,  of  Winter,  by 
Puvis  de  Chavannes.  But  to  say  that  I  saw  it  is  an 
exaggeration :  rather,  I  was  conscious  of  it.  For  the 
architect  of  the  salon  in  which  Puvis  was  permitted  to 
work  forgot  to  light  it. 

In  the  historical  room  there  are  crowded  scenes  by 
Laurens  of  the  past  of  Paris  —  the  hero  of  which  is 
Etienne  Marcel,  whose  equestrian  statue  may  be  seen 
from  the  windows,  under  the  river  facade  of  the  building. 
Etienne  Marcel,  Merchant  Provost,  controlled  Paris 
after  the  disastrous  battle  of  Poictiers,  where  the  King 
and  the  Dauphin  were  both  taken  prisoners.  Power, 
however,  made  him  headstrong,  and  he  was  killed  by  an 
assassin. 

It  is  from  the  Hotel  de  Ville  that  the  city  of  Paris  is 
administered,  with  the  assistance  of  the  Prefecture  de 
Police  on  the  island  opposite.  The  Hotel  de  Ville  con- 
tains, so  to  speak,  the  Paris  County  Council,  and  I  have 
been  told  that  no  building  is  so  absurdly  over-staffed. 
That  may  or  may  not  be  true.  The  high  officials  do 
not  at  any  rate  allow  business  to  exclude  the  finer  graces 
of  life,  for  in  the  great  hall  in  which  I  waited  for  the 
cicerone  were  long  tables  on  which  were  some  twenty  or 
thirty  baskets  containing  visiting  cards,  and  open  books 
containing  signatures,  and  before  each  basket  was  a  card 
bearing  the  name  of  an  important  functionary  of  the 
Hotel  de  Ville  —  such  as  the  Prefet  de  la  Seine,  and  the 
Sous-Prefet, and  their  principal  secretaries,  and  so  forth. 
Every  minute  or  so  someone  came  in,  found  the  basket 


296  A    WANDERER   IN    PARIS 

to  which  he  wished  to  contribute,  and  dropped  a  card 
in  it.  I  wondered  to  what  extent  the  social  machinery 
of  Paris  bureaucracy  would  be  disorganised  if  I  were  to 
change  a  few  baskets,  but  I  did  not  embark  upon  an 
experiment  the  results  of  which  I  should  have  had  no 
means  of  contemplating  and  enjoying. 

After  leaving  the  Hotel  de  Ville  and  its  modern 
splendours,  we  may  walk  eastward  along  the  Rue  de 
l'Hotel  de  Ville,  one  of  the  narrowest  and  dirtiest  relics 
of  old  Paris,  and  so  come  to  the  Hotel  de  Sens.  But 
first  notice,  at  the  corner  of  the  Rue  des  Nonnains- 
d'Hyeres,  at  the  point  at  which  Mr.  Dexter  made  his 
drawing,  the  very  ancient  stone  sign  of  the  knife-grinder. 
The  Hotel  de  Sens,  in  the  Place  de  l'Ave  Maria,  at  the 
end  of  the  Rue  de  l'Hotel  de  Ville,  is  almost  if  not  quite 
the  most  attractive  of  the  old  palaces.  Although  it  has 
been  allowed  to  fall  into  neglect,  it  is  still  a  wonderfully 
preserved  specimen  of  fifteenth-century  building.  The 
turrets  are  absolutely  beautiful.  The  Archbishop  of 
Sens  built  it,  and  for  nearly  three  centuries  it  remained 
the  home  of  power  and  wealth,  among  its  tenants  being 
Marguerite  of  Valois.  Then  came  the  Revolution  and 
its  decline  into  a  coach  office,  from  which  it  is  said  the 
Lyons  mail,  made  familiar  to  us  by  the  Irvings,  started. 
During  a  later  revolution,  1830,  a  cannon  ball  found  a 
billet  in  the  wall,  and  it  may  still  be  seen  there,  I  am 
told,  although  these  eyes  missed  it.  The  Hotel  is  now 
a  glass  factory.  The  city  of  Paris  ought  to  acquire  it 
before  it  sinks  any  lower. 


OLD    STREETS  297 

It  is  at  the  foot  of  the  Rue  de  l'Ave  Maria,  hard  by, 
that  Moliere's  theatre,  which  we  saw  from  the  Quai  des 
Celestins  in  an  earlier  chapter,  is  found.  Here  Moliere 
was  arrested  at  the  instance  of  the  unpaid  tallow 
chandler.  Our  way  now  is  by  the  Rue  Figuier,  of  which 
the  Hotel  de  Sens  is  No.  1,  to  the  Rue  Francois-Miron, 
all  among  the  most  fascinating  old  architecture  and 
association.  At  No.  8  Rue  Figuier,  for  instance,  Ra- 
belais is  said  to  have  lived,  and  what  could  be  better 
than  that?  At  No.  17,  we  have  what  the  Vicomte  de 
Villebresme  calls  a  "  jolie  niche  du  XVe  sieele."  This 
street  leads  into  the  Rue  de  Jouy,  also  exceedingly  old, 
with  notable  buildings,  such  as  No.  7,  the  work  of 
Mansard  pere,  and  No.  9,  and  on  the  left  of  the  Impasse 
Guepine,  which  existed  in  the  reign  of  Saint  Louis. 

In  the  Rue  Francois-Miron,  if  you  do  not  mind  ex- 
hibiting a  little  inquisitiveness,  enter  the  doorway  of 
No.  68,  and  look  at  the  courtyard  and  the  staircase. 
Here  you  get  an  excellent  idea  of  past  glories,  while  the 
outer  doors  or  gates  give  an  excellent  idea  of  past  danger 
too.  For  life  in  Paris  in  the  days  in  which  this  street 
was  built  must  have  been  very  cheap  after  dark.  It  is 
not  dear  even  now  in  certain  parts.  This  was  an  his- 
toric mansion.  It  was  built  for  Madame  de  Beaumaris, 
femme  de  chambre  of  Anne  of  Austria,  and  on  its 
balcony,  now  removed,  on  August  20th,  1660,  Anne 
stood  with  Mazarin  and  others  when  Louis  XIV.  entered 
Paris.     No.  82  still  retains  a  balcony  of  great  charm. 

We  now  enter  the  very  busy  Rue  St.  Antoine  at  its 


298  A    WANDERER    IN    PARIS 

junction  with  the  Rue  de  Rivoli.  Almost  immediatel}r 
on  our  right  is  a  gateway  leading  into  a  very  charming 
courtyard,  which  is  not  open  to  the  public  but  into 
which  one  may  gently  trespass;  it  is  the  school  of  the 
Freres  Chretiens,  founded  by  Frere  Joseph,  the  good 
priest  with  the  sweet  and  sad  old  face  whose  bust  is  on 
the  wall.  A  few  steps  farther  bring  us  to  the  church 
of  St.  Paul  and  St.  Louis,  a  florid  and  imposing  fane, 
to  which  Victor  Hugo  (to  whose  house  we  are  now 
making  our  way)  carried  his  first  child  to  be  christened, 
and  presented  to  the  church  two  holy  water  stoops  in 
commemoration.  Here  also  Richelieu  celebrated  his 
first  mass.  One  of  Delacroix's  best  early  works  (we  saw 
the  picture  called  "Hommage  a  Delacroix,"  you  will 
remember,  in  the  Moreau  collection  at  the  Louvre)  is 
in  the  left  transept,  "  Christ  in  the  garden  of  Gethse- 
mane."  On  no  account  miss  the  Passage  Charlemagne 
(close  to  the  St.  Paul  Station  on  the  Metro),  for  it  is 
a  curious,  busy  and  very  French  by-way,  and  it  possesses 
the  remains  of  a  palace  of  the  fourteenth  century.  In 
the  Passage  de  St.  Pierre  is  the  site  of  the  old  cemetery 
of  St.  Paul's  in  which  Rabelais  was  buried. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE    PLACE    DES    VOSGES    AND    HUGO'S    HOUSE 

A  Beautiful  Square  —  The  Palais  des  Tournelles —  Revolutionary 
Changes  —  Madame  de  Sevigne  and  Rachel  —  Hugo's  Crowded 
Life  —  A  Riot  of  Relics  —  Victorious  Versatility  —  Dumas'  Pen  — 
The  Age  of  Giants  —  Dickens  —  "  Les  Trois  Dumas' 


,>  >> 


WERE  we  to  walk  a  little  farther  along  the  busy 
Rue  St.  Antoine  towards  the  Place  de  la 
Bastille,  we  should  come,  on  the  left,  a  few  yards  past 
the  church  of  St.  Louis,  to  the  Rue  de  Birague,  at  the 
head  of  which  is  the  beautiful  red  gateway  of  which  Mr. 
Dexter  has  made  such  a  charming  picture.  This  is  the 
southern  gateway  of  the  Place  des  Vosges,  a  spacious 
green  square  enclosed  by  massive  red  and  white  houses 
of  brick  and  stone  which  once  were  the  abode,  when  the 
Place  des  Vosges  was  the  Place  Royale,  of  the  aristocracy 
of  France. 

Before  that  time  the  courtyard  of  the  old  Palais  des 
Tournelles  was  here,  where  Henri  II.  was  killed  in  a 
tournament  in  1565,  through  an  accident  for  which 
Captain  Montgomery  of  the  Scotch  Guard,  whose  fault 
Catherine  de  Medicis  deemed  it  to  be,  was  executed,  as 
we  have  just  seen,  in  the  Place  de  l'Hotel  de  Ville. 

299 


300  A    WANDERER    IN    PARIS 

Catherine  de  Medicis,  not  content  with  thus  avenging 
her  husband's  death,  demolished  the  Palais  des  Tour- 
nelles,  and  a  few  years  later  Henri  IV.,  to  whom  old 
Paris  owes  so  much,  built  the  Place  Royale,  just  as  it  is 
now.  His  own  pavilion  was  the  centre  building  on  the 
south  side,  comprising  the  gateway  which  Mr.  Dexter 
has  drawn ;  the  Queen's  was  the  corresponding  building 
on  the  north  side. 

Around  dwelt  the  nobles  of  the  Court  —  such  at  any 
rate  as  were  not  living  in  the  adjoining  Marais.  Riche- 
lieu's hotel  embraced  Nos.  21-23  as  they  now  are.  It 
was  in  front  of  that  mansion  that  the  famous  duel 
between  Montmorency-Bouteville  and  Des  Chapelles 
against  Bussy  and  Beuvron  was  fought.  The  spirit  of 
the  great  Dumas,  one  feels,  must  haunt  this  Place:  for 
it  is  peopled  with  ghosts  from  his  brave  romances. 

The  decay  of  the  Place  des  Vosges  began,  of  course, 
when  the  aristocracy  moved  over  to  the  Faubourg  St. 
Germain,  although  it  never  sank  low.  The  Revolution 
then  took  it  in  hand,  and  naturally  began  by  destroying 
the  statue  of  Louis  XIII.  in  the  centre,  which  Richelieu 
had  set  up,  while  its  name  was  changed  from  Place 
Royale  to  its  present  style  in  honour  of  the  Department 
of  the  Vosges,  the  first  to  contribute  funds  to  the  new 
order.  In  1825,  under  Charles  X.,  Louis  XIII.  in  a 
new  stone  dress  returned  to  his  honoured  position  in 
the  midst  of  the  square,  and  all  was  as  it  should  be  once 
more,  save  that  no  longer  did  lords  and  ladies  ruffle  it 
here  or  in  the  Marais. 


THE    PLACE    DES    VOSGES 

(SOUTHERN    ENTRANXE,    I\    THE    lil'E   111 


RACHEL  301 

The  most  picturesque  associations  of  the  Place  des 
Vosges  are  historical ;  but  it  has  at  any  rate  three 
houses  which  have  an  artistic  interest.  At  No.  1  was 
born  that  gifted  and  delightful  lady  in  whose  home  in 
later  years  we  have  spent  such  pleasant  hours  —  Madame 
de  Sevigne,  or  as  she  was  in  those  early  days  (she  was 
born  in  1626)  Marie  de  Rabutin-Chantal.  At  No.  13 
lived  for  a  while  Rachel  the  tragedienne.  According 
to  Herr  Baedeker,  who  is  not  often  wrong,  she  died  here 
too:  but  other  authorities  place  her  death  at  Carmet, 
near  Toulon.  I  like  to  think  that  this  rare  wayward  and 
terrible  creature  of  emotion  was  once  an  inhabitant  of 
these  walls.  The  third  house  is  No.  6,  in  the  south- 
eastern corner,  the  second  floor  of  which,  from  1833  to 
1848,  was  the  home  of  Victor  Hugo.  It  is  now  a  Hugo 
museum.  Although  Hugo  occupied  only  a  small  por- 
tion, the  whole  house  is  now  dedicated  to  his  spreading 
memory.     Let  us  enter. 

There  is  nothing  in  England  like  the  Hugo  museum. 
I  have  been  to  Carlyle's  house  in  Cheyne  Row;  to 
Johnson's  house  at  Lichfield ;  to  Wordsworth's  house 
at  Grasmere;  to  Milton's  house  at  Chalfont  St.  Giles ; 
to  Leighton's  house  at  Kensington ;  and  the  impression 
left  by  all  is  that  their  owners  lived  very  thin  lives. 
The  rooms  convey  a  sense  of  bareness:  one  is  struck 
not  by  the  wealth  of  relics  but  by  the  poverty  of  them ; 
while  for  any  suggestion  that  these  men  were  pulsating 
creatures  of  friendship  one  seeks  in  vain.  But  Hugo  — 
Hugo's  house  throbs  with  life  and  energy  and  warm 


302  A   WANDERER    IN    PARIS 

prosperous  amities.  Every  inch  is  crowded  with  memen- 
toes of  his  vigour  and  his  triumphs,  yes,  and  his  failures 
too. 

Here  are  portraits  of  him  by  the  hundred,  at  all  ages, 
caricatures,  lampoons,  play  bills,  first  editions,  popular 
editions,  furniture  by  Hugo,  decorations  by  Hugo, 
drawings  by  Hugo,  scenes  in  Hugo's  life  in  exile, 
wreaths,  busts,  portraits  of  his  grandchildren  (who 
taught  him  the  exquisite  art  of  being  a  grandfather),  his 
death-bed,  his  death-mask,  the  cast  of  his  hands.  Hugo, 
Hugo,  everywhere,  always  tremendous  and  splendid  and 
passionate  and  French. 

Among  the  more  valuable  possessions  of  this  museum 
are  Bastien-Lepage's  charcoal  drawing  of  the  master; 
Besnard's  picture  of  the  first  night  of  Hernani  with  the 
young  romantic  on  the  stage  taking  his  call  and  hurling 
defiance  at  the  gods ;  Steinlen's  oil  painting  (there  are 
not  many  oil  paintings  by  this  great  draughtsman  and 
great  Parisian)  "  Les  Pauvres  Gens " ;  Daumier's 
cartoon  "Les  Chatiments";  Henner's  "Sarah  la 
Baigneuse"  from  Les  Orientates ;  allegories  by  Chifflart; 
beautiful  canvases  by  Carriere  and  Fantin-Latour ; 
and  Devambez's  "  Jean  Valjean  before  the  tribunal  of 
Arras,"  in  which  Jean  is  curiously  like  Gladstone  in  a 
bad  coat;  Vierge's  drawing  of  the  funeral  of  Georges 
Hugo,  during  the  siege;  and  Yama  Motto's  curious 
scene  of  Hugo's  own  funeral,  of  which  there  are  many 
photographs,  including  one  of  the  coffin  as  it  lay  in 
state  for  two  days  under  the  Arc  de  Triomphe.     There 


DUMAS'   PEN  303 

are  also  a  number  of  Hugo  relics  which  the  camelots 
of  that  day  were  selling  to  the  crowds. 

Hugo,  it  is  well  known,  nursed  a  private  ambition  to 
be  a  great  artist,  and  in  my  opinion  he  was  a  great 
artist.  There  are  on  these  walls  drawings  from  his  hand 
which  are  magnificent  —  mysterious  and  sombre  for- 
tresses on  impregnable  cliffs,  scenes  in  enchanted  lands 
with  more  imagination  than  ever  Dore  compassed,  and 
some  of  the  sinister  cruelty  and  power  of  Meryon.  Hugo 
was  ingenious  too :  he  decorated  a  room  with  coloured 
carvings  in  the  Chinese  manner  and  he  made  the  neatest 
folding  table  I  ever  saw  —  hinged  into  the  wall  so  that 
when  not   in  use  it  takes  up  no  floor-space  whatever. 

It  is  amusing  to  follow  Hugo's  physiognomy  through 
the  ages,  at  first  beardless,  looking  when  young  rather 
like  Bruant,  the  chansonnier  of  to-day ;  then  the  coming 
of  the  beard,  and  the  progress  of  it  until  the  final  stage 
in  which  the  mental  eye  now  always  sees  the  old  poet  — 
white  and  strong  and  benevolent  —  the  Hugo,  in  short, 
of  Bonnat's  famous  portrait. 

On  a  table  is  a  collection  of  literary  souvenirs  of 
intense  interest:  Hugo's  pen  and  inkstand,  and  the 
great  Dumas'  pen  presented  to  Hugo  in  1860  after 
writing  with  it  his  last  "  15  or  20"  volumes  (fifteen  or 
twenty  —  how  like  him  !) ;  Lamartine's  inkstand,  offered 
"  to  the  master  of  the  pen  " ;  Georges  Sand's  match-box 
for  those  endless  cigarettes,  and  with  it  her  travelling 
inkstand.  In  another  room  upstairs  are  the  six  pens 
used  by  Hugo  in  writing  Les  Humbles.     Dumas'  pen  is 


304  A   WANDERER    IN    PARIS 

not  by  any  means  the  only  Dumas  relic  here;  portraits 
of  him  are  to  be  seen,  one  of  them  astonishingly  negroid. 
Had  he  too  worked  for  liberty  and  carried  in  his  breast 
or  even  on  his  sleeve  a  great  heart  that,  like  Hugo's, 
responded  to  every  call  and  beat  furiously  at  the  very 
whisper  of  the  word  injustice,  he  too  would  have  his 
museum  to-day  not  less  remarkable  than  this.  But  to 
write  romances  was  not  enough:  there  must  be  toil 
and  suffering  too. 

Dumas  and  Hugo  were  born  in  the  same  year,  1802 : 
Balzac  was  then  three.  In  1809  came  Tennyson  and 
Gladstone;  in  1811  Thackeray  and  in  1812  Browning 
and  Dickens.  What  was  the  secret  of  that  astounding 
period  ?  Why  did  the  first  twelve  years  of  the  last 
century  know  such  energy  and  abundance  ?  To  walk 
through  the  rooms  of  this  Hugo  museum,  however 
casually,  is  to  be  amazed  before  the  vitality  and  exuber- 
ance not  only  of  this  man  but  of  the  French  genius.  It 
is  truly  only  the  busy  who  have  time.  I  wish  none  the 
less  that  there  was  a  museum  for  Alexandre  the  Great. 
I  would  love  to  visit  it:  I  would  love  to  see  his  kitchen 
utensils  alone.  The  generous  glorious  creature,  "the 
seven  and  seventy  times  to  be  forgiven  "  !  As  it  was, 
no  one  being  about,  I  kissed  the  pen  with  which  he  had 
written  his  last  "15  or  20"  novels  (the  splendid  liar!). 

I  wish  too  that  we  had  a  permanent  Dickens  museum 
in  London  —  say  at  his  house  in  Devonshire  Terrace, 
which  is  now  a  lawyer's  office.  What  a  fascinating 
memorial  of  Merry  England  it  might  become  and  what 


THE    THREE    DUMAS'  305 

a  reminder  to  this  attenuated  specialising  day  of  the 
vigour  and  versatility  and  variety  and  inconquerable 
vivacity  of  that  giant !  Just  as  no  one  can  leave  Hugo's 
house  without  a  quickening  of  imagination  and  ambi- 
tion, so  no  one  could  leave  that  of  Charles  Dickens. 

In  addition  to  this  museum  Hugo  has  his  monument 
in  the  Place  Victor  Hugo,  far  away  in  a  residential  desert 
in  the  north-west  of  Paris,  a  bronze  figure  of  the  poet  as 
a  young  man  seated  on  a  rock,  with  Satire,  Lyric  Poetry 
and  Fame  attending  him;  while  on  the  facade  of  the 
house  where  he  died,  No.  124  Avenue  Victor  Hugo,  is  a 
medallion  portrait.  He  figures  also  in  a  fresco  in  the 
Hotel  de  Ville.  Dumas'  monument  is  in  the  garden  of 
the  Place  Malesherbes  in  the  Avenue  de  Villiers.  Dore 
designed  it,  as  was  perhaps  fitting.  The  sturdy  Alex- 
andre sits,  pen  in  hand,  on  the  summit,  his  West  Indian 
hair  curling  vigorously  into  the  sky,  with  d'Artagnan 
and  three  engrossed  readers  at  the  base.  It  is  not  quite 
what  one  would  have  wished ;  but  it  is  good  to  visit. 
His  son,  the  dramatist,  the  author  of  that  adorable  joke 
against  his  father's  vanity — that  he  was  capable  of  riding 
behind  his  own  carriage  to  persuade  people  that  he  kept 
a  black  servant  —  has  a  monument  close  by ;  and  the 
gallant  general  of  whom  one  reads  such  brave  stories  in 
the  first  volume  of  the  Memoires  is  to  be  set  there  too, 
and  then  the  Place,  I  am  told,  will  be  re-named  the 
Place  des  Trois  Dumas'. 


CHAPTER   XX 

THE    BASTILLE,    PERE    LACHAISE    AND    THE    END 

A  Thoughtful  Municipality— The  Fall  of  the  Bastille  — Revolt  and 
Revolution  — The  Column  of  July  — A  Paris  Canal  — Deliberate 
Building  —  The  Buttes  de  Chaumont  — A  City  of  the  Dead  —  Pere 
Lachaise  —  Bartolome's  Monument — The  Cimetiere  de  Mont 
Parnasse  — The  Country  round  Paris  — What  we  have  Missed  — 
Conclusion. 

THE  Place  des  Vosges  is  close  to  the  Place  de  la  Bas- 
tille, which  lies  to  the  east  of  it  along  the  Rue  St. 
Antoine.  The  prison  has  gone  for  ever,  but  one  is  as- 
sisted by  a  thoughtful  municipality  to  reconstruct  it,  a 
task  of  no  difficulty  at  all  if  one  remembers  with  any 
vividness  the  models  in  the  Carnavalet  or  the  Archives, 
or  buys  a  pictorial  postcard  at  any  neighbouring  shop. 
The  contribution  of  the  pious  city  fathers  is  a  map  on 
the  facade  of  No.  36  Place  de  la  Bastille,  and  a  per- 
manent outline  of  the  walls  of  the  dreadful  building  in- 
laid in  the  road  and  pavement,  which  one  may  follow 
step  by  step  to  the  satisfaction  of  one's  imagination  and 
the  derangement  of  the  traffic  until  it  disappears  into 
cafes  and  shops.  One  has  to  remember,  however,  that 
the  surface  of  the  ground  was  much  lower,  the  prison 
being  surrounded  by  a  moat  and  gained  only  by  bridges. 

306 


BIRTH   OF   THE    REVOLUTION         307 

For  the  actual  stones  one  must  go  to  the  Pont  de  la 
Concorde,  the  upper  part  of  which  was  built  of  them 
in  1790. 

The  Bastille's  end  came  in  1789,  at  the  beginning  of 
the  Revolution,  on  the  day  after  the  National  Guard 
was  established,  when  the  people  of  Paris  rose  under 
Camille  Desmoulins  and  captured  it,  thus  not  only  dis- 
playing but  discovering  their  strength.  Carlyle  was 
never  more  scornful,  never  more  cruelly  vivid,  than  in 
his  description  of  this  event.  I  must  quote  a  little,  it 
is  so  horribly  splendid :  "  To  describe  this  Siege  of  the 
Bastille  (thought  to  be  one  of  the  most  important  in 
History)  perhaps  transcends  the  talent  of  mortals. 
Could  one  but,  after  infinite  reading,  get  to  understand 
so  much  as  the  plan  of  the  building  !  But  there  is  open 
Esplanade,  at  the  end  of  the  Rue  Saint-Antoine ;  there 
are  such  Forecourts,  Cour  Avance,  Cour  de  I'Orme, 
arched  Gateway  (where  Louis  Tournay  now  fights) ; 
then  new  drawbridges,  dormant-bridges,  rampart-bas- 
tions, and  the  grim  Eight  Towers :  a  labyrinthic  Mass, 
high-frowning  there,  of  all  ages  from  twenty  years  to 
four  hundred  and  twenty ;  —  beleaguered,  in  this  its  last 
hour,  as  we  said,  by  mere  Chaos  come  again  !  Ordnance 
of  all  calibres;  throats  of  all  capacities;  men  of  all 
plans,  every  man  his  own  engineer:  seldom  since  the 
war  of  Pygmies  and  Cranes  was  there  seen  so  anomalous 
a  thing.  Half-pay  Elie  is  home  for  a  suit  of  regi- 
mentals; no  one  would  heed  him  in  coloured  clothes: 
half-pay  Hulin  is  haranguing  Gardes  Franchises  in  the 


308  A   WANDERER  IN   PARIS 

Place  de  Greve.  Frantic  Patriots  pick  up  the  grape- 
shots;  bear  them,  still  hot  (or  seemingly  so),  to  the 
Hotel  de  Ville :  —  Paris,  you  perceive,  is  to  be  burnt ! 
Flesselles  is  'pale  to  the  very  lips';  for  the  roar  of  the 
multitude  grows  deep.  Paris  wholly  has  got  to  the 
acme  of  its  frenzy ;  whirled,  all  ways,  by  panic  madness. 
At  every  street-barricade,  there  whirls  simmering  a 
minor  whirlpool,  —  strengthening  the  barricade,  since 
God  knows  what  is  coming;  and  all  minor  whirlpools 
play  distractedly  into  that  grand  Fire-Maelstrom  which 
is  lashing  round  the  Bastille. 

"And  so  it  lashes  and  it  roars.  Cholat  the  wine- 
merchant  has  become  an  impromptu  cannoneer.  See 
Georget,  of  the  Marine  Service,  fresh  from  Brest,  ply 
the  King  of  Siam's  cannon.  Singular  (if  we  were  not 
used  to  the  like) :  Georget  lay,  last  night,  taking  his 
ease  at  his  inn;  the  King  of  Siam's  cannon  also  lay, 
knowing  nothing  of  him,  for  a  hundred  years.  Yet 
now,  at  the  right  instant,  they  have  got  together,  and 
discourse  eloquent  music.  For,  hearing  what  was  to- 
ward, Georget  sprang  from  the  Brest  Diligence,  and 
ran.  Gardes  Francaises  also  will  be  here,  with  real 
artillery :  were  not  the  walls  so  thick  !  —  Upwards  from 
the  Esplanade,  horizontally  from  all  neighbouring  roofs 
and  windows,  flashes  one  irregular  deluge  of  musketry, 
without  effect.  The  Invalides  lie  flat,  firing  compara- 
tively at  their  ease  from  behind  stone;  hardly  through 
portholes  show  the  tip  of  a  nose.  We  fall,  shot;  and 
make  no  impression ! 


MLLE.    DE   MORENO 

GRANIE 

{Luxembourg) 


DE    LAUNAY  309 

"Let  conflagration  rage;  of  whatsoever  is  combus- 
tible !  Guard-rooms  are  burnt,  Invalides  mess-rooms. 
A  distracted  '  Perukemaker  with  two  fiery  torches '  is 
for  burning  '  the  saltpetres  of  the  Arsenal ' ;  —  had  not 
a  woman  run  screaming;  had  not  a  Patriot,  with  some 
tincture  of  Natural  Philosophy,  instantly  struck  the 
wind  out  of  him  (butt  of  musket  on  pit  of  stomach), 
overturned  barrels,  and  stayed  the  devouring  element. 
A  young  beautiful  lady,  seized  escaping  in  these  Outer 
Courts,  and  thought  falsely  to  be  De  Launay's  daughter, 
shall  be  burnt  in  De  Launay's  sight;  she  lies  swooned 
on  a  paillasse:  but  again  a  Patriot,  it  is  brave  Aubin 
Bonnemere,  the  old  soldier,  dashes  in  and  rescues  her. 
Straw  is  burnt ;  three  cartloads  of  it,  hauled  thither,  go 
up  in  white  smoke :  almost  to  the  choking  of  Patriotism 
itself;  so  that  Elie  had,  with  singed  brows,  to  drag 
back  one  cart;  and  Reole  the  'gigantic  haberdasher' 
another.  Smoke  as  of  Tophet ;  confusion  as  of  Babel ; 
noise  as  of  the  Crack  of  Doom  ! 

"  Blood  flows ;  the  aliment  of  new  madness.  The 
wounded  are  carried  into  houses  of  the  Rue  Cerisaie; 
the  dying  leave  their  last  mandate  not  to  yield  till  the 
accursed  Stronghold  fall.  And  yet,  alas,  how  fall  ?  The 
walls  are  so  thick  !  Deputations,  three  in  number,  arrive 
from  the  Hotel  de  Ville;  Abbe  Fauchet  (who  was  of 
one)  can  say,  with  what  almost  superhuman  courage  of 
benevolence.  These  wave  their  Town-flag  in  the  arched 
Gateway;  and  stand,  rolling  their  drum;  but  to  no 
purpose.     In  such  Crack  of  Doom  De  Launay  cannot 


310  A   WANDERER   IN   PARIS 

hear  them,  dare  not  believe  them:  they  return,  with 
justified  rage,  the  whew  of  lead  still  singing  in  their 
cars.  What  to  do?  The  Firemen  are  here,  squirting 
with  their  fire-pumps  on  the  Invalides  cannon,  to  wet 
the  touchholes;  they  unfortunately  cannot  squirt  so 
high;  but  produce  only  clouds  of  spray.  Individuals 
of  classical  knowledge  propose  catapults.  Santerre,  the 
sonorous  Brewer  of  the  Suburb  Saint-Antoine,  advises 
rather  that  the  place  be  fired,  by  a  'mixture  of  phos- 
phorus and  of  oil-of-turpentine  spouted  up  through 
forcing-pumps':  O  Spinola-Santerre,  hast  thou  the 
mixture  ready  ?  Every  man  his  own  engineer !  And 
still  the  fire-deluge  abates  not :  even  women  are  firing, 
and  Turks;  at  least  one  woman  (with  her  sweetheart), 
and  one  Turk.  Gardes  Francaises  have  come :  real  can- 
non, real  cannoneers.  Usher  Maillard  is  busy;  half- 
pay  Elie,  half-pay  Hulin  rage  in  the  midst  of  thousands. 

"  How  the  great  Bastille  Clock  ticks  (inaudible)  in  its 
Inner  Court  there,  at  its  ease,  hour  after  hour;  as  if 
nothing  special,  for  it  or  the  world,  were  passing  !  It 
tolled  One  when  the  firing  began ;  and  is  now  pointing 
towards  Five,  and  still  the  firing  slakes  not.  —  Far  down, 
in  their  vaults,  the  seven  Prisoners  hear  muffled  din  as 
of  earthquakes ;  their  Turnkeys  answer  vaguely. 

"  Wo  to  thee,  De  Launay,  with  thy  poor  hundred 
Invalides !  Broglie  is  distant,  and  his  ears  heavy : 
Besenval  hears,  but  can  send  no  help.  One  poor  troop 
of  Hussars  has  crept,  reconnoitering,  cautiously  along 
the  Quais,  as  far  as  the  Pont  Neuf.     '  We  are  come  to 


"LA   BASTILLE   EST   PRISE"  311 

join  you,'  said  the  Captain ;  for  the  crowd  seem  shoreless. 
A  large-headed  dwarfish  individual,  of  smoke-bleared 
aspect,  shambles  forward,  opening  his  blue  lips,  for  there 
is  sense  in  him;  and  croaks:  'Alight  then,  and  give 
up  your  arms ! '  The  Hussar-Captain  is  too  happy  to 
be  escorted  to  the  Barriers,  and  dismissed  on  parole. 
Who  the  squat  individual  was  ?  Men  answer,  It  is 
M.  Marat,  author  of  the  excellent  pacific  Avis  au  Peuple  ! 
Great  truly,  O  thou  remarkable  Dogleech,  is  this  thy 
day  of  emergence  and  new-birth :  and  yet  this  same  day 
come  four  years  —  !  —  But  let  the  curtains  of  the  Future 
hang." 

After  some  hours  the  deed  is  done  and  Paris  re-echoes 
to  the  cries  "La  Bastille  est  prise!"  "In  the  Court, 
all  is  mystery,  not  without  whisperings  of  terror ;  though 
ye  dream  of  lemonade  and  epaulettes,  ye  foolish  women  ! 
His  Majesty,  kept  in  happy  ignorance,  perhaps  dreams 
of  double-barrels  and  the  Woods  of  Meudon.  Late  at 
night,  the  Duke  de  Liancourt,  having  official  right  of 
entrance,  gains  access  to  the  Royal  Apartments ;  unfolds, 
with  earnest  clearness,  in  his  constitutional  way,  the 
Job's-news.  'Mais,'  said  poor  Louis,  'c'est  une  revolte, 
Why,  that  is  a  revolt !'  —  '  Sire,'  answered  Liancourt, '  it 
is  not  a  revolt,  —  it  is  a  revolution.'  " 

That  was  July  14th,  1789 ;  but  it  is  not  the  July  that 
the  Colonne  de  Juillet  in  the  centre  of  the  Place  cele- 
brates. That  July  was  forty-one  years  later,  not  so  late 
but  that  many  Parisians  could  remember  both  events: 
July  27th  to  29th,  1830,  the  Second  Revolution,  which 


312  A   WANDERER   IN   PARIS 

overturned  the  Bourbons  and  set  Louis-Philippe  of 
Orleans  in  the  siege  perilleux  of  France.  Louis-Phi- 
lippe himself  erected  this  monument  in  memory  of  the 
six  hundred  and  fifteen  citizens  who  fell  in  his  interests 
and  who  are  buried  beneath.  Their  names  are  cut  in 
the  bronze  of  the  column,  on  the  summit  of  which  is  the 
beautiful  winged   figure  of  Liberty. 

Beneath  the  vault  of  the  Colonne,  and  immediately 
beneath  the  Colonne  itself,  runs  the  great  canal  which 
brings  merchandise  into  Paris  from  the  east,  entering 
the  Seine  between  the  Pont  Sully  and  the  Pont  d'Auster- 
litz.  At  this  point  it  is  not  very  interesting,  but  from 
the  Avenue  de  la  Republique,  where  it  re-emerges  again 
into  the  light  of  day,  and  thence  right  away  to  the  Abat- 
toirs de  Yillette,  it  is  very  amusing  to  stroll  by.  The 
Paris  Daily  Mail,  which  in  its  eager  paternal  way  has 
taken  English  and  American  visitors  completely  under 
its  wing,  is  diurnally  anxious  that  its  readers  should 
make  a  tour  of  these  abattoirs.  But  not  I.  That  a 
holiday  in  Paris  should  include  the  examination  of  a 
slaughter-house  strikes  me  as  a  joyless  proposition,  put- 
ting thoroughness  far  before  pleasure.  But  the  Daily 
Mail  is  like  that;  it  also  does  its  best  on  the  second  and 
fourth  Wednesdays  in  every  month  to  get  its  compatriots 
down  the  Paris  sewers.  And  I  suppose  they  go. 
Strange  heart  of  the  tourist !  We  never  think  of  pene- 
trating either  to  the  sewers  or  the  slaughter-houses  of 
our  native  land;  we  have  no  theories  of  sewers,  no 
data  for  comparison ;  we  love  the  upper  air  and  the  sun. 


CANALS  AND   QUAIS  313 

But  being  in  a  foreign  city  we  cheerfully  give  the  second 
or  fourth  Wednesday  to  such  delights. 

Having  taken  the  Daily  Mail's  advice  and  visited  the 
abattoirs  (which  I  have  not  done),  one  cannot  do  better 
than  return  to  Paris  by  way  of  the  canal,  sauntering 
beside  it  all  the  way  to  the  Rue  Faubourg  du  Temple, 
where  one  passes  into  the  Place  de  la  Republique  and 
the  stir  of  the  city  once  more.  The  canal  descends 
from  the  heights  of  La  Villette  in  a  series  of  long  steps, 
as  it  were  (or,  to  take  the  most  dissonant  simile  possible 
to  devise,  like  the  lakes  at  Wootton),  built  up  by  locks. 
Idling  by  this  canal  one  sees  many  agreeable  phases  of 
human  toil.  Many  commodities  and  materials  reach 
Paris  by  barge,  and  it  is  on  these  quais  and  in  the 
Villette  basin  that  the  unloading  is  done;  while  the 
barges  themselves  are  pleasant  spectacles  —  so  long  and 
clean  and  broad  —  very  Mauretanias  beside  the  barges 
of  Holland  —  with  spacious  deck-houses  that  are  often 
perfect  villas,  the  wife  and  children  watering  the  flowers 
at  the  door. 

One  quai  is  given  up  wholly  to  lime.  This  arrives  in 
thousands  of  little  solid  sacks  which  stevedores  whiter 
than  millers  transfer  to  the  carts,  that,  in  their  turn, 
creak  off  to  disorganise  the  traffic  of  a  hundred  streets 
and  provoke  the  contempt  of  a  thousand  drivers  before 
they  reach  their  destined  building,  on  which  the  work- 
men have  already  been  engaged  for  two  years  and  will 
be  engaged  for  two  years  more.  There  is  no  hurry  in 
constructional  work  in  Paris  —  except  of  course  on  Exhi- 


314  A   WANDERER   IN   PARIS 

bitions,  which  spring  up  in  a  night.  The  same  piece  of 
road  that  was  up  in  the  Rue  Lafayette  for  some  surface 
trouble  in  a  recent  April,  I  found  still  up  in  October. 
But  they  have  the  grace,  when  rebuilding  a  house  in 
the  city,  to  hide  their  deliberate  processes  behind  a 
wooden  screen  —  such  a  screen  as  was  opposite  the  Cafe 
de  la  Paix,  at  the  south-east  corner  of  the  Boulevard 
des  Capucines,  for,  it  seems  to  me,  years. 

If,  however,  one  is  walking  beside  the  canal  in  the 
other  direction,  up  the  hill  instead  of  down,  one  will 
soon  be  nearer  the  Victoria  Park  of  Paris,  the  park  of 
the  east  end,  than  at  any  other  time,  and  this  should 
be  visited  as  surely  as  the  abattoirs  should  be  avoided : 
unless,  of  course,  one  is  a  well-informed  or  thoughtful 
butcher.  We  have  seen  the  Pare  Monceau;  well,  the 
antithesis  of  the  Pare  Monceau,  which  has  no  counter- 
part in  London,  is  the  Pare  des  Buttes-Chaumont. 
Both  are  children's  paradises,  the  only  difference  in  the 
children  being  social  position.  The  Pare  des  Buttes- 
Chaumont  is  sixty  acres  of  trees  and  walks  and  perpen- 
dicular rocks  and  water,  the  special  charm  of  which  is 
its  diversified  character,  rising  in  the  midst  to  an  immense 
height  made  easy  for  carriages  and  perambulators  by  a 
winding  road.  It  has  a  deep  gorge  crossed  by  a  sus- 
pension bridge,  a  lake  for  boats,  a  cascade,  and  thousands 
of  chairs  side  by  side,  touching,  lining  the  roads,  on  which 
the  maids  and  matrons  of  La  Villette  and  Belleville 
sew  and  gossip,  while  the  children  play  around.  The 
pare  was  made  in  the  sixties  :  before  then  it  had  been  a 


PERE   LACHAISE  315 

waste  ground  and  gypsum  quarry  —  hence  its  attractive 
irregularities.  How  wonderful  the  heights  and  cathedral 
of  Montmartre  can  appear  from  one  of  the  peaks  of  the 
Buttes-Chaumont,  Mr.  Dexter's  drawing  shows. 

The  Buttes-Chaumont  is  the  most  easterly  point  we 
have  yet  reached;  but  there  is  another  pare  more 
easterly  still  awaiting  us,  not  unlike  the  Buttes-Chau- 
mont in  its  acclivities,  but  unlike  it  in  this  particular, 
that  it  is  a  pare  not  of  the  living  but  the  dead.  I  mean 
Pere  Lachaise.  Pere  Lachaise !  What  kind  of  an  old 
man  do  you  think  gave  his  name  to  this  cemetery? 
Most  persons,  I  imagine,  see  him  as  white-haired  and 
venerable :  not  twinkling,  like  Papa  Gontier,  but  serene 
and  noble  and  sad.  As  a  matter  of  fact  he  was  a  pere 
only  by  profession  and  courtesy.  Pere  Lachaise  was 
Louis  XIV. 's  fashionable  confessor  (Landor  has  a  divert- 
ing imaginary  conversation  between  these  two),  and  the 
cemetery  took  its  name  from  his  house,  which  chanced  to 
occupy  the  site  of  the  present  chapel.  The  ground  was 
enclosed  as  a  burial  ground  as  recently  as  1804,  which 
means  of  course  that  the  famous  tomb  of  Abelard  and 
Heloise,  to  which  all  travellers  find  their  way,  is  a 
modern  reconstruction.  The  remains  of  La  Fontaine 
and  Moliere  and  other  illustrious  men  who  died  before 
1804  were  transferred  here,  just  as  Zola's  were  recently 
transferred  from  the  cemetery  of  Montmartre  to  the 
Pantheon,  but  with  less  excitement. 

Pere  Lachaise  cannot  be  taken  lightly.     The  French 
live    very  thoroughly,   but    when    they   die    they  die 


316  A   WANDERER   IN   PARIS 

thoroughly  too,  and  their  cemeteries  confess  the  scythe. 
There  may  be,  to  our  thinking,  too  much  architecture; 
but  it  is  serious.  There  is  no  mountebanking  (as  at 
Genoa),  nor  is  there  any  whining,  as  in  some  of  our  own 
churchyards.  Death  to  a  Frenchman  is  a  fact  and  a 
mystery,  to  be  faced  when  the  time  comes,  if  not  before, 
and  to  be  honoured.  On  certain  festivals  of  the  year 
there  are  a  thousand  mourners  to  every  acre  of  Pere 
Lachaise. 

The  natural  entrance  is  by  the  Rue  de  la  Roquette, 
but  it  is  less  fatiguing  to  enter  at  the  top,  at  the  new 
gate  in  the  Avenue  du  Pere  Lachaise,  and  walk  down- 
hill ;  for  the  paths  are  steep  and  the  cemetery  covers 
a  hundred  acres  and  more.  The  objection  to  this  course 
is  that  one  loses  some  of  the  sublimity  of  Bartholomews 
Monument  aux  Morts  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain  on 
which  the  chapel  stands.  This  monument  faces  the 
principal  entrance  with  the  careful  design  of  impressing 
the  visitor,  and  its  impact  can  be  tremendous.  We 
approach  it  by  the  Avenue  Principale,  in  which  lies 
Alfred  de  Musset,  with  the  willow  waving  over  his  tomb 
and  his  own  lines  upon  it. 

And  then  one  enters  seriously  upon  this  strange  pil- 
grimage among  names  and  memories.  Chopin  lies  here, 
his  music  stilled,  and  Talma  the  tragedian;  Beau- 
marchais  and  Marechal  Ney;  Cherubini  and  Alphonse 
Daudet;  Balzac,  his  pen  forever  idle,  and  Delacroix; 
Beranger  who  made  the  nation's  ballads,  and  Brillat- 
Savarin,  all  his  dinners  eaten;  Michelet,  the  historian, 
and  Planchette,the  composer  of  Les  Cloches  de  Corneville  ; 


CITIES   OF   THE    DEAD  317 

Daumier,  the  great  artist  who  saw  to  the  heart  of  things, 
and  Corot,  who  befriended  Daumier's  last  years ;  Dau- 
bigny  and  Rosa  Bonheur,  Thiers  and  Scribe ;  Rachel, 
once  so  very  living,  and  many  Rothschilds  now  poorer 
than  I. 

Paris  has  other  cemeteries,  as  we  know,  for  we  have 
walked  through  that  of  Montmartre;  but  there  is  also 
the  Cimetiere  de  Montparnasse,  where  lie  Sainte-Beuvc 
and  Leconte  de  Lisle,  Theodore  de  Banville,  master  of 
vers  de  societe,  and  Fantin-Latour,  Baudelaire  (lying 
beneath  a  figure  of  the  Genius  of  Evil),  and  Barby 
d'Aurevilly,  the  dandy-novelist.  There  are  also  the 
cemeteries  of  Passy  and  Picpus,  but  into  these  I  have 
never  wandered.  Lafayette  lies  at  Picpus,  which  is  at 
Vincennes  and  costs  fifty  centimes  to  see,  and  there  also 
were  buried  many  victims  of  the  guillotine  besides  those 
whose  bodies  were  flung  into  the  earth  behind  the 
Madeleine. 

All  the  space  at  my  disposal  has  been  required  by 
Paris  itself ;  and  such  is  the  human  interest  that  at  any 
rate  in  the  older  parts  clings  to  every  stone  and  saturates 
the  soil,  that  I  do  not  know  that  I  have  had  any  temp- 
tation to  rove  beyond  the  fortifications.  But  that  of 
course  is  not  right.  No  one  really  knows  the  Parisians 
until  he  sees  them  in  happy  summer  mood  in  one  of 
the  pleasure  resorts  on  the  Seine,  or  winning  money  at 
Enghien,  or  lunching  in  one  of  the  tree-top  restaurants 
at  Robinson.     We  have  indeed  been  curiously  unenter- 


318  A   WANDERER   IN   PARIS 

prising,  and  it  is  all  owing  to  the  fascination  of  Paris  her- 
self and  the  narrow  dimensions  of  this  book.  We  have 
not  even  been  to  St.  Denis,  to  stand  among  the  ashes 
of  the  French  kings ;  we  have  not  descended  the  formal 
slopes  of  St.  Cloud;  we  have  not  peeped  into  Corot's 
little  chapel  at  Ville  d'Avray;  we  have  not  seen  the 
home  of  Sevres  porcelain;  we  have  not  scaled  Mont 
Valerien ;  we  have  not  taken  boat  for  Marly  le  Roi ;  we 
have  not  wandered  marvelling  but  weary  amid  the  battle 
scenes  of  Versailles,  or  smiled  at  the  pretty  fopperies  of 
the  hamlet  of  the  Petit  Trianon.  We  have  not  known 
the  shade  either  of  the  Bois  de  Vincennes  or  the  Bois  de 
Meudon. 

Much  less  have  we  fed  those  guzzling  gourmands, 
the  carp  of  Chantilly,  or  lost  ourselves  before  the  little 
Raphael  there,  or  the  curious  Leonardo  sketch  for  La 
Joconde,  or  the  sweet  simplicities  of  the  pretty  Jean 
Fouquet  illuminations,  particularly  the  domestic  solici- 
tude of  the  ladies  attending  upon  the  birth  of  John  the 
Baptist ;  less  still  have  we  forgotten  the  restlessness  and 
urgency  of  Paris  amid  the  allees  and  rochers  of  the 
Forest  of  Fontainebleau,  and  the  still  white  streets  of 
Barbizon,  or  even  on  the  steps  of  the  chateau  where  the 
Great  Emperor,  thoughts  of  whom  are  never  very  dis- 
tant —  are  indeed  too  near  —  bade  farewell  to  his  Old 
Guard  in  1814. 

Greater  Paris,  it  will  be  gathered,  is  hardly  less  in- 
teresting than  Paris  herself;  and  indeed  how  pleasant 
it  would  be  to  write  about  it !     But  not  here. 


THE   END  319 

Of  Paris  within  the  fortifications  have  I,  I  wonder, 
conveyed  any  of  the  fascination,  the  variety,  the  colour, 
the  self-containment?  I  hope  so.  I  hope  too  that  at 
any  rate  these  pages  have  implanted  in  a  few  readers 
the  desire  to  see  this  beautiful  and  efficient  city  for 
themselves,  and  even  more  should  I  value  the  know- 
ledge that  they  had  excited  in  others  who  are  not 
strangers  to  Paris  the  wish  to  be  there  again.  To  do 
justice  to  such  a  city,  with  such  a  history,  is  of  course 
an  impossibility.  What,  however,  should  not  be  im- 
possible is  to  create  a  gout. 


INDEX 


Abattoirs,  the,  312. 

Abbaye-aux-Bois,  160. 

Abelard,  315. 

Advocates  and  barristers,  24. 

Alvantes,  Duchesse  d',  45. 

Angelo,  Michael,  102. 

Anne  of  Austria,  297. 

Antoinette,  Marie,  20,  21,  71,  215, 

216. 
Apollon,  Galerie  d',  248. 
Arbre-Sec,  Rue  de  1',  288. 
Arc  de  Triomphe,  114,  142-45,  302. 
Archives,  the,  64,  65. 
Aristocratic  homes,  62,  145,   158. 
Arnold,   Matthew,   quoted,   267-69. 
Artagnan,  D',  288. 
Arts  et  Metiers,  Musee  de,  258. 
Astruc,  178. 
Attila  the  Hun,  190. 
Aurevilly,  B.  d',  317. 
Austerlitz,  214. 
Ave-Maria,  Rue  de  1',  297. 

Baedeker,  215,  261,  301. 

"  Bagatelle,"  146. 

Bal  Bullier,  179. 

Balloons,  51. 

Balzac,  159,  178,  194,  260,  304,  316. 

Banville,  T.  de,  178,  317. 

Barbizon  School,  100,  103-6. 

Bard,  Wilkie,  235. 

Barristers  and  advocates,  24. 

Barry,  the  St.  Bernard  dog,  208. 

Bartholome,  316. 

Bartholomew,  St.,  Massacre  of,   23, 

286. 
Barye,  the  sculptor,  60,  245. 
Bassano,  89. 


Bastien-Lepage,  177. 
Bastille,  the,  72,  306-12. 
Baudelaire,   Charles,   56,    104,    317. 
Beauharnais,    Josephine,    45,     158, 

174. 
Beaumarchais,  316. 
Beaumaris,  Madame  de,  297. 
Beaux-Arts,  Palais  des,  150. 
Beggars  in  Paris,  263. 
Bellini,  91. 
Benefices,  231,  232. 
Beranger,  258. 
Bergere,  Cite,  250. 
Berlioz,  178,  225,  269. 
Bernard,  Saint,  52. 
Bernhardt,  251. 
Besieged  Resident,  the,  210-13. 
Besnard,  302. 
Bibliotheque  de  Mazarin,  166. 

—  Nationale,  247. 
Bievre,  the  river,  186,  187. 
Bigio,  88. 

Billiards  in  Paris,  220-22. 
Birague,  Rue  de,  299. 
Birds,  the  charmer  of,  127-30. 
Birrell,  Mr.  Augustine,  15. 
Blanche,  177. 

—  Rue,  260. 
Bodley,  Mr.,  200. 
Boilly,  71. 

Bois  de  Boulogne,  the,  145-49- 

Bol,  93. 

Bone,  Mr.  Muirhead,  24,  67. 

Bonheur,  Rosa,  317. 

Bonington,  92,  98,  102. 

Bonnat,  303. 

Bons  Enfants,  Rue  des,  286. 

Bookhunters,  17,  18. 


321 


322 


A   WANDERER   IN    PARIS 


Bookstalls    in    Paris    and  London, 

14-18. 
Borssom,  98. 
Botticelli,  79,  80,  89. 
Bottin,  154. 
Boucher,  70,  99. 
Bouland,  176. 
Boulevardiers,  219,  239. 
Boulevards,  Grands,  218,  219. 
Bourse,  the,  248,  249. 
Boverie,  285. 
Brillat-Savarin,  316. 
Brisemiche,  Rue,  75. 
Browning,  304. 
Bruant,  Aristide,  271,  303. 
Building  in  Paris,  313. 
Buridan,  180. 
Buttes-Chaumont,  Pare,  264,  314. 

Cabarets   artistiques,   270,    271. 
Cabman,  the  singing,  2. 
Cabmen  in  Paris,  240-42. 
Cafe  de  la  Paix,  227-43. 
Cafes,  227,  228. 

—  night,  273-75- 

Cain,  M.  Georges,  160,  200. 

Canals,  313. 

Capel  Court,  249. 

Capucines,  Boulevard  des,  220-24, 

273- 
Caran  d'Ache,  271. 
Carlyle,  178. 

—  quoted,   37-41,    116-21,    134-37, 

138-40,  279-81,  284,  285,  307- 

11. 
Carnavalet,  Musee,  61,  69-74. 
Caro-Delvalle,  177. 
Carolus-Duran,  176,  178. 
Carpeaux,  no,  225. 
Carriere,  105,  176,  177,  302. 
Carries,  151. 

Carrousel,  Arc  de,  1 17-21. 
Cartoons  in  the  street,  249. 
Cartouche,  294. 
Caxton,    William,    quoted,    57,   59, 

189-91,  253-55,  a89- 
Cazin,  152,  175,  176. 


Cemeteries  in  Paris,  315-17. 

Cerrito,  226. 

Cerutti,  245. 

Champions  of  France,  221. 

Champs-Elysees,  141,  142. 

Chanoinesse,  Rue,  52. 

Chantilly,  318. 

Chardin,  70,  95,  99. 

Charlemagne,  Passage,  298. 

Charles  X.,  300. 

Charmer  of  birds,  the,  127-30. 

Chateaubriand,  159,  160. 

Chaudet,  no. 

Chauffeurs  in  Paris,  242,  243. 

Chaussee  d'Antin,  Rue  de  la,  245. 

Chavannes,     Puvis    de,     152,     181, 

190,  193,  295. 
Cherubini,  226. 
Chifflart,  302. 
Childeric,  190. 

Chopin,    143,    178,    245,  251,  316. 
Christianity  in  Paris,  190. 
Church  music,  289. 
Churches  — 

Blancs-Manteaux,  67. 

Madeleine,  188. 

Pantheon,  188-96. 

Petits  Peres,  249. 

Sacre-Coeur,  262. 

St.  Elizabeth  of  Hungary,  64. 

—  Etienne-du-Mont,  193,  196-98. 

—  Eugene,  251. 

—  Eustache,  40,  289. 

—  Germain  du  Pre,  163. 
l'Auxerrois,  286-88. 

—  Jacques-la-Boucherie,  293. 

—  Joseph  de  Carmes,  178. 

—  Julien  le  Pauvre,  185. 

—  Merry,  76. 

—  Nicholas-des-Champs,  77. 

—  Paul  and  St.  Louis,  298. 

—  Roch,  278-81,  283. 

—  Severin,  185. 

—  Sorbonne,  181. 

—  Sulpice,  163. 
"Ciel,"  270. 
Cigars  in  Paris,  223. 


INDEX 


S2S 


Cimetieres    in    Paris,    264,   266-70. 

—  du  Nord,  266-70. 
Claque,  the,  233. 
Clarac  collection,  no. 
Claude,  91,  98. 
Clichy,  Boulevard,  270. 
Clocks  in  Paris,  22. 
Clotilde,  190. 

Clouet,  97. 

Clovis,  190. 

Cluny,  Musee  de,  181-84. 

Coligny,  286. 

Colonna,  Vittoria,  89. 

Colonne  de  Juillet,  311,  312. 

Commune,  the,   27,    115,    124,   217, 

258,  264,  278,  285. 
Compas  d'Or,  the,  5,  6. 
Comte,  181. 
Concierge,  the,  230. 
Conciergerie,  the,  19-23. 
Concorde,  the  Place  de  La,  132-40. 

—  Pont  de  la,  307. 
Conservatoire,  the,  251. 
Constable,  92. 
Coquelin,  251,  259. 
Corday,  Charlotte,  216. 
Corot,  99,  103,  105,  178,  317. 
Correggio,  88,  91,  95. 
Cosimo,  Piero  de,  90. 

Cour  du  Dragon,  161. 
Coustou,  no. 
Couture,  105. 
Coyzevox,  no. 
Curiosity  shops,  159. 

Daily  Mail  in  Paris,  312. 
Dalou,  151,  175,  259. 
Dammouse,  176. 
Dancing  halls,  272. 
Dante,  185,  187. 
Daubigny,  105,  317. 
Daudet,  Alphonse,  142,  316. 
Daumier,  152,  302,  317. 
David,  99,  101,  194,  195. 

—  Madame,  152. 

—  G.,  95- 

Da  Vinci,  Leonardo,  81-87,  3J8- 


Death  and  the  French,  95,  315. 

Decamps,  103,  105. 

Degas,  175. 

Delacroix,  100,  104,  106,  178,  298, 
316. 

Delair,  Frederic,  199-201. 

Delaroche,  164. 

Delibes,  226,  269. 

De  Musset,  56,  282,  316. 

De  Neuville,  177,  270. 

Denis,  Saint,  253. 

Desmoulins,  Camille,  171,  284,  285. 

Devils  of  Notre  Dame,  51,  52. 

Dexter,  Mr.,  as  a  tipster,  148. 

his  conception  of   Paris,    24. 

Diaz,  105. 

Dickens,  Charles,  304. 

Diderot  and  the  pretty  book- 
seller, 17. 

Dobson,  Mr.  Austin,  15,   178,   184. 

Dogs  in  Paris,  207-9. 

—  cemetery,  the,  208,  209. 
Donizetti,  226. 

Dor6,  303. 

Dou,  93. 

Drouot,  Rue,  246,  247. 

Dubois,  175,  193. 

Duel,  a  famous,  300. 

Dufayel,  Maison,  264-66. 

Dumas,    Alexandre,    62,    93,    178, 

3°°.  3°3,  304,  3°5- 

fils,  24,  104. 

Duncan,  Isadora,  153. 

Dupr6,  106. 

Durer,  95. 

Dutch  School,  the,  94,  95,  153. 

Dutuit  collection,  150,  153. 

Economy  in  Paris,  291,  292. 
Eiffel  Tower,  the,  50. 
Elizabeth,  Madame,  216. 
Elocutionist,  the,  203. 
Elysee,  the,  276. 

—  de  Montmartre,  272. 
"  Enfer,"  270. 
Enghien,  318. 

English  and  French,   141,   327-40. 


324 


A    WANDERER    IN    PARIS 


Estrees,  Duchesse  d',  158. 
Etoile,  Place  de  1',  142-45. 
Eustache,  Saint,  290. 
Execution  of   Louis  XVI.,  134-37. 

Robespierre,  138-40. 

Eyck,  J.  van,    95. 

Fabriano,  96. 
Fairs  in  Paris,  147,  153. 
Falguiere,  161. 
Fallieres,  President,  252. 
Fantin-Latour,  104,  176,  302,  317. 
Faubourg    Saint-Honore,    Rue    du, 
276. 

—  Poissoniere,  Rue  du,  252. 
Ferrofinerie,  Rue  de  la,  293. 
Fete  de  St.  Genevieve,  197. 
Figuier,  Rue,  297. 

FitzGerald,    Edward,    quoted,    73, 

282. 
Flandrin,  163,  176. 
Flinck,  93. 
Flower  markets,  218. 
Fontainebleau,  318. 
Fouquet,  Jean,  318. 
Fragonard,  99. 
Francois  I.,  86,  87,  89,  248. 
Francois-Miron,  Rue,  297. 
Francoise-Marguerite,  262. 
Francs-Bourgeois,  Rue  des,   61,  68, 

74- 
Fremiet,  114,    153,    175,    179.    T93> 

205. 
French,  the,  29. 

—  and  English,  141,  227-40. 

—  Revolution,  37-41,  116-21,  134- 

37,   138-40,  279-81,   284,    285, 
307-n. 

Gallas,  the,  206. 

Gambetta     monument,      126. 

Gare  de  Lyon,  3. 

—  du  Nord,  3,  209. 

—  St.  Lazare,  3. 
Gamier,  Charles,  225. 
Gautier,  270. 
Genee,  270. 


Genevieve,  Si.  188-92,  196,  197,  255 

Genlis,  Madame  de,  159. 

Germain,  Saint,  286-88. 

Ghirlandaios,  the,  90,  95. 

Gibbon,  245. 

Giotto,  90,  129. 

Gladstone,  271,  302,  304. 

Goat-herd,  the,  292. 

Gold  and  silver,  in. 

Golden  Legend,  The,  57,  59,  189-91, 

253-55.  289. 
Goncourts,  de,  270. 
Gounod,  143,  226. 
Grand  Cafe,  220. 
Grandpre,  Louise  de,   quoted,    35- 

37.  42-44- 
Grands  Boulevards,  218,  219. 
Granie,  177. 
Grenelle,  Rue  de,  158. 
Greuze,  99. 
Greve,  Place  de,  293. 
Grevin,  the  Musee,  246. 
Grolier,  247. 

Gronow,  Captain,  quoted,  171—73. 
Guides,  224. 
Guillotine,  the,  133-40. 

Habeneck,  226. 
Halevy,  270. 
Halles,  the,  290-92. 

—  des  Vins,  the,  201. 
Haraucourt,  M.  Edmond,  183. 

translated,  257. 

Harpignies,  152,  176,  177. 
Hals,  95. 

Haussmann,  Boulevard,  216,  247. 

— ■  Baron,  122,  123. 

Heine,  Heinrich,   142,  194,  266-69. 

Helo'ise,  52,  315. 

Henley,  W.  E.,  178. 

Henner,  151,  302. 

Henri  II.,  299. 

—  IV.,  12,  13,  35,  112,  264,  278,  293, 

294.  3°°- 
Herold,  226. 
Heyden,  van  der,  95,  98. 
Hippodrome,  271. 


INDEX 


325 


His  de  la  Salle  collection,  80,  95,  101. 

Hobbema,  95,  153. 

Hoffbauer,  70. 

Horloge,  the,  22. 

Hospital  of  the  Trinity,  256. 

Hotel  de  Ville,  294-96. 

Rue  de  1',  296. 

Sens,  296. 

—  des  Monnaies,  167-69. 
Houdon,  no. 

Hugo,  Victor,  25,  32,  48,    134,  153, 
189,  298,  300-5. 

—  Georges,  302. 
Huysmans,  quoted,  187. 
Hyacinthe,  Pere,  47. 

Ile  de  la  Cite,  9-30. 

—  St.  Louis,  the,  54-60. 
Imprimerie  Nationale,  68. 
Ingres,  80,  95,  100,  163,  164. 
Innocents,  Square  des,  293. 
Institut,  the,  166. 
Invalides,  Hdtel  des,  154-57. 
Isabey,  106,  226. 

Italiens,  Boulevard  des,  245,  273. 

Jabach,  87. 

Jacqueminot,  Ignace,  195. 

Jardin  d'Acclimatation,  203,  205-7. 

—  des  Plantes,  201-5. 
Jena,  214. 

Jeraud,  no. 

Joan  of    Arc,    114,    153,    160,   193. 

"Joconde,  La,"  81-87,  3r^« 

Joke,  the  one,  29,  238,  275. 

Joseph,  Frere,  298. 

Josephine,  the  Empress,  45,  158,  174. 

Jouy,  Rue  de,  297. 

Karbowski,  152. 
Key,  sign  of  the,  163. 

Lablache,  226. 

Labouchere,    Mr.,   quoted,  310-13. 
Lachaise,  Pere,  315-17. 
Lafayette,  317. 

—  Rue,  277,  314. 


Laffittc,  Jacques,  245. 

—  Rue,  245. 

La  Fontaine,  315. 

Lamartine,  303. 

Lamb,  Charles,  285,  286. 

—  Mary,  17. 
Lancret,  99. 
Landor  quoted,  91. 
Lang,  Mr.  Andrew,  178. 
Latin  Quarter,  179-81. 
Latude,  71-73. 
Lauder,  Harry,  235. 
Laurens,  295. 

Law,  John,  76. 

Le  Brun,  99. 

Le  Coutier,  175. 

Lecouvreur,  Adrienne,  158,  164. 

Legros,  104,  175,  176. 

Le  Nain,  97. 

Leno,  Dan,  235. 

Lepage,  Bastien,  302. 

Le  Sidaner,  177. 

Letter-boxes,  223. 

Lippi,  Fra  Filippo,  90. 

Lisle,  Leconte  de,  317. 

Livry,  Emma,  226. 

Lizst,  226. 

London  and  bookstalls,  14. 

Paris,    14,   24,   27,    129,    146, 

154,  201,  219,  227-40,  338, 
249,  273,  290-92. 
Longchamp,  146-49. 
Lotto,  91. 
Louis-Philippe,  121,   123,  140,  144, 

312. 
Louis,  Saint,  10,  27,  35,  47,  56-60, 

65,  180. 

—  XIL,  248. 

—  XIII.,  87,  300. 

—  XIV.,  87,  297,  315. 

—  XV.,  133,  188,  248. 

—  XVI.,    36,    65,    115,     133,    215, 

3"- 

—  XVIII. ,  46,  125,  215. 
Louvre,  Musee  du,  78-113. 
Lowell,  J.  R.,  quoted,  85. 
Loyola,  263. 


326 


A   WANDERER   IN   PARIS 


Lucas  the  failure,  221. 
Luini,  80,  88,  91. 
Luxembourg,  the,  173-79- 
Luxor  column,  the,  132,  140. 
Lyons  mail,  the,  296. 

Madeleine,  the,  188,  214-18. 

Mainardi,  90. 

Mali  bran,  225. 

Manet,  100,  104,  152,  176. 

Mantegna,  91,  95. 

Marais,  the,  61-77. 

Marat,  71,  195. 

Marcel,  Etienne,  295. 

Marguery,  252. 

Marie  Antoinette,  20,  21,  71,  215. 

216. 
Marius,  221. 
Marly  le  Roi,  318. 
Martin,  Saint,  257,  258. 
Martyrs,  Chambre  de,  159. 

—  Rue  des,  260. 

Massacre  of  Swiss  Guards,  11 5-21. 

St.   Bartholomew,   23,   286. 

Masse,  Victor,  226. 
Masson,  Frederic,  246. 
Maupassant,  Guy  de,  143. 
Mazarin,  247,  297. 

—  Rue,  276. 

Medals  and  their  designers,   169. 
Medicis,    Catherine    de,    115,    28, 
288,  293,  299. 

—  fountain,  the,  173. 

—  Marie  de,.  141,  294. 
Meilhac,  270. 
Meissonier,  106,  176. 
Memling,  95,  99. 

Me>yon,   Charles,   23,   24,   51,  303. 

Messina,  Antonella  di,  91. 

Metsu,  95. 

Meudon,  318. 

Meyerbeer,  226. 

Mi-Careme,  217,  218,  273. 

Michel,  Georges,  70. 

Michelet,  316. 

Millet,  100,  103,  106. 

Mint,  the  Paris,  167-65). 


Mirabeau,  194,  245,  289. 
Moliere,  60,  170,  282,  283,  297,  315. 
Monceau,  Pare,  142,  143,  314. 
Monet,  175. 

Money,  bad,  in  Paris,  168. 
Monnaies,  H6tel  de,  167-69. 
"Monna  Lisa,"  81-87,  3*8. 
Mont  de  Piete,  the,  66. 

—  Parnasse,  Cimetiere,  317, 

—  Valerien,  318. 
Montesquieu,  Rue,  286. 
Montgomery,   Captain,   294,  299. 
Montmartre,  245,  254,  260-75. 
Montorgeuil,  Rue,  5,  250. 
Moreau  collection,  103. 

—  Musee,  261. 
Morgue,  the,  54,  55. 
Mottez,  177. 
Motto,  Yama,  302. 
Moulin-de-la-Galette,  272. 

—  Rouge,  271. 
Moulins,  Le  Maitre  de,  97. 
Mousseaux,  226. 

Murger,    Henri,    178,    180,    270. 

Murillo,  92. 

Musee  de  l'Armee,  154-57. 

—  -  ;  et  Metiers,  258. 

navalet,  61,  69-74. 
,  -  Cernuschi,  143. 
-  de  Cluny,  181-84. 

—  du  Conservatoire,  251. 

—  Grevin,  246. 

—  Guimet,  144. 

—  du  Louvre,  78-113. 

—  de  Luxembourg,  174-79. 

—  Moreau,  261. 

—  de  l'Opera,  225,  226. 

Musees    des    Jardin    des    Plantes, 

204,  205. 
Music  in  Paris,  289. 

—  Hall,  the,  in  Paris,  234,  235. 
Musical  trophies,  225,  226,  251. 
Musset,  Alfred  de,  56,  282,  316. 
Mystery  plays,  256. 

Napoleon    and   the   Arc    de   Tri- 
omphe,  144. 


INDEX 


327 


Napoleon,  end  of    the    Revolution, 
279-81. 

Madeleine,  214. 

— Old  Guard,  318. 

Pantheon,  188. 

statue  of  Henri   IV.,  13. 

Vendome  column,  278. 

—  at  St.  Sulpice,   163. 

—  his  coronation,  44-46. 
early  palaces,  174- 

interest    in    art,    112,    113. 

iron  bridge,  166. 

relics,   154-57- 

second  funeral,  157. 

tomb,  157. 

two    Arcs,    124,    125,    126. 

—  in  two  pictures,  101. 

—  meets  Josephine,  246. 

—  relics   at    the    Carnavalet,    73. 

—  III.,  46,  122,  123. 

rebuilds  Paris,  122. 

Neant,  Cabaret  de,  270. 
Necker,  245. 

Newspapers  in  France,   27-30. 
New  Year's  Eve,  273. 

—  York,  129. 
Ney,  316. 

Night  cafes,  273-75. 

Nodier,     Charles,     on     the     bo 

hunter,  18. 
Notre  Dame,  n,  26,  31-53. 

Offenbach,  269. 
Olivier,  Pere,  46. 
Olympia  Taverne,  220. 
Opera,  the,  48,  225. 
Ostade,  98. 

Paganini,  225,  251. 
Pailleron,  143. 
Painting,  modern,  149. 
Paix,  Cafe  de  la,  227-43. 

—  Rue  de  la,  277. 

Palais  de  Justice,  the,  24-26. 

—  des    Beaux-Arts,    150,    164,    165. 

—  Royal,  the,  283. 
Palma,  91. 


Pantheon,  the,  188-96. 
Pari-Mutuel,  the,    147,    148. 
Paris  and  balloons,  51. 

beggars,  263. 

Christianity,  190. 

economy,  291,  292. 

its    aristocratic    quarters,    62, 

158. 

billiard    saloons,     220-22. 

bird's-eye  views,  145. 

cemeteries,  315-17. 

civic   museums,    69-74. 

clocks,  22. 

dogs,  207-9. 

early  history,  9,  10. 

fickleness,  216,  245. 

—  —  —  flats,  162. 

Mint,  167-69. 

mobs,  32. 

—  —  —  newspapers,  27-30. 

restaurants,  7. 

Royal    Academy    Schools, 

164,  165. 

royal  palaces,  n. 

Salons,  149. 

sculpture,  126,  127. 

stations,  1,2. 

-  —  —  statuary,  178. 

two  Zoos,  201. 

views,  196,  264. 

• waiters,  238. 

late  hours,  273. 

London,     14,    24,     27,     154, 

201,     219,     227-40,     238, 
249,  273,  290-92. 

the  play,  28. 

post,  223,  224. 

ship,  48. 

—  as  Meryon  saw  it,  23,  24. 

—  fairs,  153. 

—  from   Notre   Dame,    11,   48,   49. 

—  —  the  Eiffel  Tower,  50,  51. 

—  in  the  small  hours,  273-75. 

—  pleasure  of  entering,  1-4. 

—  under  siege,  209-13. 
Parisian,  the,  his  provinciality,  130. 
Pascal,  198,  247,  293. 


328 


A   WANDERER   IN   PARIS 


Passy,  Cimetiere  de,  317. 

Pasteur,  160. 

Pater,  Walter,  quoted,  82-84. 

Pawning  in  Paris,  66. 

Peacocks,  the  202-4. 

Pere  Lachaise,  264,  315-17. 

—  Lunette,  Le,  173. 
Perugino,  91. 
Picard,  177. 

Picpus,  Cimetiere  de,  317. 

Pigalle,  Rue,  no,  260. 

Pinaigriers,  the,  198. 

Planchette,  316. 

Pointelin,  152. 

Pol,  Henri,  90,  127-30. 

Police  of  Paris,  the,  19,  240. 

Pompadour,    Madame    La,    283. 

Pompeii,   treasures  of,    no,    111. 

Pompes  Funebres,  251. 

Pc-1*-  au  Change,  the,  22. 

—  d'Alexandre  III.,  153. 

—  de  la  Concorde,  307. 

—  Neuf,  12. 
Porte  Maillot,  149. 

—  St.  Denis,  253-56. 

—  St.  Martin,  256. 

Post,  the,  in  Paris,  223,  224. 

Pot,  153- 

Potter,  95. 

Poussin,  91,  98. 

Prefecture  de  Police,  the,   18. 

Print  shops,  170. 

Procope,  Cafe,  171. 

Prud'hon,  70. 

Puget,  no. 

Quai  des  Celestins,  60. 
Quasimodo,  25,  48. 
Quatre-Septembre,    Rue    du,    377. 

Rabelais,  297,  298. 

Rachel,  301,  317. 

Racine,  198. 

Raeburn,  92. 

Ramly,  no. 

Raphael,   87,   88,  91,  92,   102,   318. 

Ravaillac,  293,  294. 


Reason,  Goddess  of,  39,  41. 

—  the  Cult  of,  37-41. 
Reaumur,  Rue,  277. 

Recamier,  Madame,   101,  159,   160, 

245- 

Religion  advertised,  252. 
Rembrandt,    91,   92,   93,    151,    248. 
Renan,  270. 
Renaudon,  27. 
Renoir,  175. 
Republic,  Third,  124. 
Republican  palace,  a,  294. 
Republics  in  statuary,  259. 
Republique,  Place  de  la,  259. 
Restaurants,    6-8,    147,    173,    199- 

201,  244,  252,  286. 
Restoration,  the,  123-25. 
Reveillon,  244,  273. 
Revolution,  the,  33,  65,  71,  87,  113, 

x33-39.     x78,    246,    259,    279, 

281,   284,   285,   289,  300,  307- 

n. 

—  of  1830,  296,  311,  312. 
Revue,  the,  235,  236. 
Richelieu,  181,  284,  298,  300. 

—  Rue  de,  247,  282,  283. 
Riding  schools,  206. 
Rivoli,  Rue  de,  277. 
Robespierre,  138-40,  278. 
Robinson,  318. 
Rochefoucauld,  Rue,  260. 
Rodin,  174,  i7S.  r77>  *95- 
Roland,  Madame,  18,  71,  245. 
Roman    remains   in    Paris,    8,    31, 

182,  187. 
Romney,  99. 
Rossini,  225,  226. 
Rothschild  collection,  111. 
Rougemont,  Cite,  251. 
Rousseau,  J.  J.,  106,  193. 
Rubens,  91,  93,  94,  95. 
Rude,  no. 
Ruggieri,  289. 
Ruisdael,  95,  152. 

Sacre-Cceur,  the,  245,  262. 
St.  Antoine,  Rue,  297-99. 


INDEX 


329 


St.  Bartholomew,  Massacre  of,   23, 
286. 

—  Cloud,  318. 

—  Denis,  189,  215,  318. 
Rue,  225,  256. 

—  Dominic,  47. 

—  Francis,  129. 

—  Genevieve,  188-92, 196,  197,  255. 

—  Germain,  189. 

—  Honore,  Rue,  277-86. 

—  Martin  Priory,  257. 
Rue,  76,  257. 

—  Merry,  75. 

—  Peter,  75. 
Sainte  Beuve,  317. 

—  Chapelle,  26,  27. 
Saints-Peres,  Rue,  159,  276. 

—  the  mothers  of,  190. 
Salis,  Rodolphe,  271. 
Salons,  the,  149. 

Samson,  the  headsman,  137,  139- 

Sand,  Georges,  178,  303. 

Sargent,  152. 

Sarto,  Andrea  del,  91. 

Scheffer,  100. 

Scribe,  317. 

Sculpture  in  Paris,  78,  106-10,  126, 

127,  178,  259. 
Seine,  the,  14- 
Sens,  Hotel  de,  296. 
Sevigne,  Madame  de,  73,  301. 
Sevres,  318. 
Sewers,  the,  312. 
Shaftesbury  Avenue,  277. 
Shaw,  Mr.  Bernard,  166. 
Sicard,  the  Abbe,  178. 
Siege  of  1870,  the,  210-13. 
Sisley,  152,  175. 
Soitoux,  259. 
Solario,  91. 

Sorbonne,  the,  179-81. 
Steinlen,  152,  176,  271,  302. 
Sterne,  Laurence,  16,  163. 
Stockbrokers  in  Paris,  249. 
Stoppeur,  the,  162. 
Street  life  in  Paris,  236-43. 
Streets,  favourite,  250,  276,  277. 


Student  life,  180. 

Suresnes,  149- 

Swiss  Guards,  115-21.  216. 

Tabarin,  Bal,  272. 
Tailors,  political,  249- 
Talma,  316. 
Temple,  the,  63. 
Tennyson,  304. 
Terburg,  95,  102,  153. 
Terra-cottas,  no. 
Thackeray,  157,  294,  3°4- 
Thames,  the,  14- 
Thaulow,  177. 
Theatre,  the  first,  256. 

—  the,  in  Paris,  232-34. 
Theatres,  28,  282. 
Themines,  the  Marquis  de,  200. 
Thiers,  317. 

—  collection,  102. 
Thomas,  Ambroise,  143.  269. 
Thomy-Thierret  collection,  105,  106. 
Tiber,  the,  109. 

Tintoretto,  89,  91. 
Tissot,  177. 
Titian,  88,  89,  91. 
Tortoni,  Cafe,  171-73- 
Tour  d'Argent,  the,  199-201. 

—  Saint- Jacques,  293. 
Traffic,  240. 
Trajan,  290. 

Triomphe,  Arc  de,  114,  142-45.  3oa- 
Tristan  und  Isolde,  292. 
Troyon,  70,  105,  106. 
Tuileries,  the,  114-31. 

Uccello,  90. 

Uzanne,  Octave,  on  the  booksellers, 

15.  I0- 

Valois,  Rue,  285. 
Van  de  Velde,  153. 
—  Dyck,  94. 
Vasari  quoted,  85,  86. 
Veber,  152. 
Velasquez,  88,  10 1. 


330 


A   WANDERER   IN   PARIS 


Venddme,  Place,  277,  278. 

Venus  of  Milo,  107. 

Verdi,  226. 

Vermeer,  95. 

Veronese,  88,  89. 

Versailles,  318. 

Vestris,  226. 

Viarmes,  Rue  de,  288. 

Victor  Hugo,  Avenue  de,  305. 

Vierge,  152,  302. 

Views  in  Paris,  11,  48-50,  145,  196, 

262. 
Villebresme,  Vicomte  de,  297. 
Ville  d'Avray,  318. 
—  H6tel  de,  294-96. 

Rue  de  1',  296. 

Vincennes,  318. 

Vinci,  81-87,  95)  3*8. 

Virgin,  the,  and  the  Bird,  42-44. 

Voisin's,  7. 

Vollon,  70,  177. 


Volney,  Rue,  252. 
Voltaire,  71,  166,  194,  195. 
Vosges,  Place  des,  299. 

Waiters,  238. 

Wallace,  Sir  Richard,  146. 

Watteau,  70,  95,  99,  178. 

Waxworks  in  Paris,  246. 

Weenix,  98. 

Weerts,  181. 

Weyden,  Roger  van  der,  95. 

Whiff  of  Grapeshot,  the,  279-81. 

Whistler,  104,  177. 

Wiertz,  261.  ' 

Willette,  271,  272. 

Winged  Victory,  78,  79,  87. 

Women  in  Paris,  219,  239,  291. 

Ziem,  151. 
Zola,  194,  3IS- 
Zurbaran,  92. 


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